The Burden of Eternity
by Venus Smurf
Summary: WB The Dark has Risen, but Will won't be able to keep his family out of it this time...
1. The Storm

**A.N.:** I started rereading this story a little while ago, and I've decided that someone must have died as I was writing the first chapter. Seriously, just skimming it made me depressed! I can't understand how any of you actually stuck with me. I was choking on the angst, and it's _my_ fic!

To make a long story longer, I've tried to lighten it up a bit…or at least make it feel less like a very wordy eulogy. I don't know if I succeeded—if I took out _all _the angst, there'd be nothing left!—but I tried. Hopefully, future chapters won't be so…ugh. And I realize that this chapter is slow, but I only had so much to work with. The next chapters should be better.

Oh, and I didn't bother my beta with this--I'm saving her for the next real chapter--so if there are errors, it's entirely my fault.

Edited December 2007

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"**The Burden of Eternity"**

**  
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**Chapter One: Storms**

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He shouldn't have gone to the attic. 

It was the last place to be, in a storm like this. The old house was all but shaking as wind and rain swept across loose shutters and under shingles, as it rattled against the ancient walls. Will closed his eyes, no fear at all in his face as the house shuddered around him, though he did wonder, absently, if the walls would hold. He knew how much damage a storm could do, and this would hardly be the first time these flimsy wooden barriers had failed him.

Then again, as bad as the storm was—the worst one in nearly seven years, according to the local weather people—the maelstrom outside was not the reason Will should have avoided the attic on a night like this. Thin and ancient as the walls might be, the grey-eyed young man had more to fear from the ghosts than the storm—for ghosts did walk here, though only Will could have seen them, and then only because his memories had created them. They'd haunted his every waking moment and tormented his dreams for years, had plagued him every time he entered this attic bedroom of his, and they disturbed him far more than any storm ever could.

Perhaps he should have been used to them by now. He'd spent so much time in this room, brooding with only those specters for company, but nights like this one gave them power they simply didn't have at any other time. Too many of his worst memories had been formed on nights just like this, or at least when storms of a different sort had raged around him, and what could give his ghosts more power than that which had created them in the first place?

And the attic was dangerous for other reasons. The ghosts aside, everything had started here. Or maybe it had really begun with a couple of scared rabbits and some radio static, but this was where he'd been when he'd finally begun to understand who he was and what he'd stood to lose.

And, oh, how much he'd stood to lose.

This was also as much of a stronghold as he'd ever have. He'd made it so, over the years, though his defenses wouldn't have seemed like such to anyone else. Sprigs of holly, strangely vibrant for all that they were a little out of season, hung in bunches over the windows and door, and on a shelf against the far wall lay a battered and ancient hunting horn that only Will could value. Most importantly of all, a well-loved and equally well-feared carnival mask resided on the floor beneath the horn, its yellow eyes occasionally gleaming even in the storm-brought darkness.

They brought their own memories, these relics of Will's impossible past, and they certainly brought their own ghosts, though he'd almost learned to live with them. They were all he had left, really, and at least the horn and the carnival head gave him something tangible to protect.

Will sighed and forced himself to open his eyes, though his face remained impassive as he stared out the window and into the rain. The sun had gone down long ago, but if his eyes saw farther than they should have on this overcast night, it no longer mattered.

_Six years, _he thought. Six years since the end of a war that had lasted for millennia, six years since his masters had abandoned him in a world grown suddenly empty. They'd been…long, those years, eternities in themselves, but he'd never asked himself if it'd been worth it, this price he'd had to pay. He knew it was. He knew it had to be.

And if those years had been lonely and his life would only become lonelier still, what of that? As hard as his solitude was, Will knew he didn't have any right to want anything more. He had a job to do, and if that job would take a lot longer than he'd initially expected, well, wasn't it his turn to make the sacrifices? He needed to stop wallowing in self-pity and just get on with it.

Will snorted suddenly, an inelegant sound truly befitting one who had technically spent only eighteen years in mortality. His lips twisted in an astringent frown, though his eyes remained as carefully blank as always. _I'm being childish again, _he thought, and even in his own mind, the words were heavy with self-derision. _It's a good thing that Merriman can't see how pathetic I've become. He'd have a few choice words for me, that's for sure. _

Will frowned at his reflection in the glass, unclasping the hands that had remained, motionless, behind his back until this moment. He rubbed absently at one temple, still fighting both his irritation with himself and the migraine that had been steadily increasing the entire afternoon. The pain lanced persistently through his head, and only the intensity of his training kept his expression clear of any reaction. Even now, even to this, he would not—_could_ not—lose control.

Light flared in the darkness outside, and Will turned aloof grey eyes down to the driveway beneath his window. His mother's old van was sliding to a halt on the gravel below him, and Will could just make out the sound of the dying engine over the rain. An instant later, all three of the doors slid open, and more than half a dozen people piled from the car. They were shrieking with laughter as the rain struck their faces, as they tried to protect their purchases from the downpour. They ran for the house, barely remembering to shut the car doors behind them as they fled the elements.

Will turned from his window, the tiniest of smiles curving his sculpted lips as he moved across his attic bedroom and made his way to the stairs. He was just human enough to be amused by the fact that his siblings were undoubtedly soaked to the bone, and while he shouldn't have been able to hear their laughter from here, he was simply glad to hear it at all. It'd been too long since his siblings had come home.

Will moved silently down the stairs, his graceful, noiseless tread at odds with his sturdy body. He could hear one of his sisters giggling near the foot of the stairs, and when the giggle was followed by an indignant male cry, his smile widened into a genuine, rather relieved grin. _Not quite so alone, after all, _he thought.

He found his family in the bright, spotlessly clean kitchen of his home, most of his siblings still gathered in a chaotic mass in the doorway. Their laughter continued as they unburdened themselves of their purchases and simultaneously attempted to remove wet shoes and jackets. By the time Will had stepped fully into the kitchen, nearly a dozen raincoats had been draped over the coat rack, and Will's eldest sister was half-heartedly attempting to wipe away the puddles of water now gathered on the hardwood planks. She glanced up as Will came closer, and her quick, honest smile did more to lift Will's spirits than anything else might have. "Hallo, Will."

He merely grinned at her, no trace at all of his earlier loneliness in his eyes, but he didn't bother to answer. He merely nodded a greeting back at her, then automatically moved across the kitchen to stand at his mother's side. The Stanton matriarch was busy unloading groceries from far too many nondescript brown paper bags, and she, too, smiled at him as he reached for the nearest one and started to help.

Will kept his eyes turned from hers as he began pulling vegetables and frozen pizzas from the bags, though he knew his mother wouldn't expect much of a response from him anyway. Whatever he might have been in his childhood years, Will had grown into a rather solemn, quiet young man, and she'd become too accustomed to his silences. They all had, but Will, knowing what the future held and what he'd have to do to them one day, couldn't quite see that as a bad thing. Attention was the last thing he wanted, and he was actually glad that his presence didn't make more of an impact on them.

Still, for all that he'd accepted the necessity of his future, thought of it was sobering, and it was suddenly a little too difficult to maintain the cheerful façade. Will's happiness faded, his eyes became bleak once more, and he was absurdly grateful when his mother suddenly turned to him and informed him that they were a bag short. He glanced briefly at her, a false smile pasted to his lips, then turned away before she could see his eyes. "I'll go check the car," he told her, already stepping around the counter and heading for the door. "Maybe someone missed it in all the bedlam."

He kept his eyes down as he crossed the kitchen, though his siblings really didn't notice him as he grabbed his coat from its hook by the door. He slipped it over his shoulders, opened the door and stepped outside. The rain was still coming down in buckets, but the youngest Stanton didn't hesitate to move away from the safety of the porch and out into the storm. He was simply grateful for an excuse to get away, to compose himself before he had to return to his family and spend another night pretending to be human for them.

He'd pulled his coat tight around his neck, but the rain still found a way to slip beneath his collar and down his spine, and Will was glad to slide into the protection of the unlocked vehicle. He climbed into the car, slamming the door behind them. The rain sounded louder than ever on the metal roof of the van, but Will only shook his head, dog like, to free himself of the water still weighing down his brown hair. He rubbed a hand over his wet face, then began searching for the bag.

He found it on the back seat, the brown paper slightly wet from the trip between grocer and car, and Will absently wondered how any of his siblings could have missed it. He climbed over the middle bench, reached out with one strong hand to latch onto the errant sack.

And then he froze, his fingers outstretched and not quite touching the bag. Something, he suddenly realized, was…off. Dangerously so, and though he couldn't immediately pinpoint the source of his unease, his stomach muscles clenched with trepidation. His senses kicked into overdrive, the part of himself that was not an eighteen-year-old boy protesting the sudden _wrongness_ filling the space around him. The Old One within was awakening with a vengeance, and he knew, without question, that touching the bag was the last thing he should do.

His hand jerked back to his side as swiftly as though he had grasped fire, his grey eyes widening with disbelief. _Why now, after all this time? And how is it even possible? _

He wasn't given a chance to collect himself. Before he could do more than blink in shock, a new sort of fear clutched at his heart. It was impossibly strong and horribly familiar, and he knew, without a doubt, that it didn't come from him. _What the hell is in that bag?_

A second wave of fear followed on the wings of the first, this one just as strong and unnatural, and Will gasped aloud with the agony of it. He fought to regain control of himself, to regain control of his own emotions long enough to force this debilitating fear from his mind. Whatever was in that paper bag, it shouldn't have been strong enough to make him lose control of himself like this, and Will could do nothing more than back away and hope his training as an Old One would protect his mind from the evil currently assailing him.

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**Venus Smurf's Thoughts of the Day: **

I love being married--it's so great to find that one special person you want to annoy you for the rest of your life.

What's the difference between a menstruating woman and a terrorist? You can negotiate with the terrorist.

In a psychiatrist's waiting room, two patients are having a conversation. One says to the other, "Why are you here?"  
The second answers, "I'm Napoleon, so the doctor told me to come here."  
The first is curious and asks, "How do you know that you're Napoleon?"  
The second responds, "God told me I was."  
At this point, a patient on the other side of the room shouts, "NO, I DIDN'T!"

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	2. Fear

**A.N**.: Um, I probably should have just combined this chapter with the first one, but that would require more editing, and I'm much to lazy for that. Please try to forgive me for taking so long with what's essentially one scene. The story will pick up after this, I promise.

**Edited December 2007**

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**Chapter Two: Fear**

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_Fear._

It was the fear Will remembered most, the sense of dread that always seemed to accompany the awakening of that other within him. It tore into his soul, tore into his mind and his heart, and Will found that he could no longer breathe. His lungs were suddenly paralyzed within his chest, his heart unable to cycle the precious blood that even his body needed so greatly.

Will tried to move, tried to battle this fear that had taken control, that had imprisoned his essence behind an unbreachable wall of terror. He_ tried_ to fight it, but the powers gripping him were too great, even for the Old One that he was. He knew he was stronger than this, but he couldn't defend himself against his own fears. They assailed him, ripped through the shields he'd so painstakingly built around himself and his emotions. He was defenseless before them, and he quailed inside.

Images began to flash through his mind, images born of his destiny and of his nature—images born of the Dark. He tried to fight these, as well, but he was still too deeply in the thrall of whatever talisman the Dark had sent to hold him. He couldn't move, and he couldn't stop them.

…_An old man, bent and withered, waited alone on an empty, barren plain. Heat shimmered across the cracked earth beneath his feet, but the man seemed not to feel the intensity of the sun beating down upon him. His wrinkled, overly tanned forehead was free of moisture, his grey eyes unshielded against the brightness. The man, indeed, seemed hardly to feel anything; his body was as motionless and worn as the rock upon which he lingered. He simply continued to stare at the horizon, never once moving. _

_His face was entirely free of emotion, but a terrible emptiness lingered within his eyes as he gazed, utterly silent, at this dead landscape before him..__This place was far too still, and even the wind now stirring the uncut and unwashed strands of his beard and hair was unnervingly weak. Silence surrounded him, isolated him. The entire surface of this planet was completely devoid of all life save himself, and even the ghosts had long since abandoned him._

_There was nothing left._

_The man sighed, slowly folding his hands behind his back in a posture that he had unwittingly maintained for millennia. He knew, of course, that the fault for the destruction of this world was entirely his, but he could no longer feel the grief his own actions had once caused. He could feel nothing, not even grief, and he knew that _this_ was his true punishment. _

_Those of the Light had always been cruel._

_They had been ingenious, his masters. They had know how much he'd dreaded losing his humanity, and they had, in retribution for his actions, simply stripped that humanity away with a few casually spoken words. They had taken his soul, had replaced his heart with emptiness. The boy he'd once been had become nothing more than a memory, and he could no longer remember what name he'd carried or why he'd accepted this destiny in the first place.__He could remember nothing of his old life, his old purpose. He could no longer recall who he'd been, and, his punishment complete, he no longer cared. Nothing mattered anymore—not for him, and not for those he'd once sworn to protect. They were dead, after all, and he was dead inside. Nothing could ever matter again._

_The old man sighed again, grimacing as a particularly intense flare of sunlight reflected off the cracked earth and into his eyes. His eyes immediately began to water, but the man did not bother to wipe away this unexpected moisture. He simply continued to stare, uninterrupted, at the lifeless scenery before him. _

_A mountain had once stood here, he knew, had once sheltered those living in this land that had once been Wales. The mountain was long gone, worn away by Time and by men, and even the plain had been made lifeless by the wars and disasters of countless centuries. Nothing would ever grow here—the soil had become too saturated with the blood of men, with the poisons of civilizations that had fallen millennia ago. Life could not return to this place, and it would always remain as it was now. This plain, like his soul, would always be barren, and he had not been able to prevent the destruction of either. Both had died long ago, and, though he had known what would happen, he had been helpless to stop it. _

_He could remember the way the world had once been, could remember the way _he _had once been. Innocent, full of life—everything that he no longer was and could never be again.__His destiny had taken that innocence from him, just as his weakness had taken the life from this world. He had failed, had destroyed everything he'd been born to protect, and nothing could ever be the same. He was alone, would always be alone. His enemies were gone, purged by the choices he had made, but those choices had also annihilated everything he'd ever held dear. Of the countless creatures that had once dwelt upon this earth, he, alone, had survived._

_And he could not feel grief. The only emotion they'd left him with, the only feeling powerful enough to break through the ice around his soul, was loneliness. They hadn't permitted him anything else.__He sighed, and the agony of that loneliness continued, even after so many centuries, to shorten his breath and still his heart. He had done his duty, he thought. He had prevented the rising of the Dark, and the masters even he had almost forgotten could have no other need for him._

_His task was finally complete…_

Will returned to himself with another gasp, his eyes wide with horror and his tongue thick and dry and glued to the roof of his mouth. The vision faded away as he shuddered, but the terrible emptiness continued to linger in the far corners of his soul, never again to be fully purged. He was shaking, his stocky body suddenly as frail as his future self's had appeared to be. His mind was whirling with implications, but his enemies did not give him an opportunity to recover, choosing, instead, to immediately assail him with another vision.

…_He stood before the grave, hands shoved as deeply as possible into the pockets of his plain, serviceable jacket. He watched, grey eyes silent and almost harsh as the coffin was slowly lowered into this gaping hole in the earth._

_Hazy figures moved around him, strangers gently tossing dozens of long-stemmed roses into his brother's grave. Most of the roses missed the top of the coffin entirely, of course, but those around him were too wrapped in their grief to notice. He glanced at them from the corners of his eyes, suspecting that many of these were members of his ever-expanding family. He probably should have recognized them, but while he could see himself in their eyes, they were still strangers. He listened to their weeping, to the words of consolation they tried to offer each other, but his own face was as blank and emotionless as always. He simply watched them, saying nothing as the flowers continued to rain upon the wooden surface of his brother's final prison._

_Eventually, the stream of roses ceased, and the mourners began to depart. He stayed where he was, listening almost absently to the subdued chatter of the cemetery caretakers attempting to cover his brother's coffin with the earth from which he'd been created.__Then, after a few minutes more, even they departed, and he was left alone once again._

_The sun drifted into the horizon, the stars slowly made their nightly appearances in the sky. The night grew chill, a faint breeze stirring the earth around his brother's newly mounded grave. Crickets chirped from what few bushes remained on the grounds, and he shivered over something other than the cold._

_He didn't know how long he stood there, but the sun was already beginning to rise before he shook himself and thought to leave. His hair, he noticed absently, was wet with the morning's dew, his body stiff from his vigil. The pale rays of the rising sun struck his tense, white face, and he sighed._

_He stepped lightly forward, moving almost hesitantly towards his brother's headstone. He placed a gentle hand on the smooth marble, running his long, unchanged fingers over the grooves of his brother's name. He'd missed so much, he thought sadly. He'd missed his siblings' weddings, missed the births of their children. He'd missed their joys, their sorrows. He had, in fact, missed everything but their deaths, and, even then, the closest he had come to them was to stand by their graves once they had already left mortality._

_He sighed again, pulling his hand back to his side. His arms moved of their own accord, fingers interlacing behind his back. "Farewell, Paul," he murmured softly, and even the stark wisdom of his eyes was shuttered. "You were always the best of us, and I'm sorry that I couldn't be there for you." He closed his eyes, jaw clenching with the familiar grief. "It was better this way, and I hope that, wherever you are, you can forgive me."_

_Footsteps sounded on the wet grass behind his stocky figure as his words faded into the cold morning fog now gathering around him, but he didn't turn to face the man now moving slowly across the cemetery lawn. _

_The man came to stand beside him, taking his old place at Will's side, but the Old One remained silent, his gaze fixed on Paul's headstone. He had, of course, expected this visit, and his features were free of any surprise another might have felt. He deserved to be caught like this, he told himself rather sternly—he'd lingered by his brother's grave far longer than he should have, and this meeting had been postponed for too many years already._

_They stood in silence for several long moments, but still, he would not speak. His companion finally sighed, one wrinkled hand raking back the shock of white hair adorning his head as he began the conversation they'd delayed for fifty years. "Was it worth it?" the other man asked, and his voice was as caustic and heavily accented as it had been all those years before._

_He tilted his own head to one side, letting the brown strands of his hair fall into his grey eyes. His expression was blank, though his features retained a certain wistfulness and regret. "No," he replied, voice still soft, "but it had to be this way."__He turned, then, finally allowing his gaze to meet his companion's. "I couldn't stay, Bran," he whispered, the haunted expression on his face softening some of his companion's long-repressed anger. "You know that I couldn't. Never changing, never aging—they wouldn't have understood, and my presence would have hurt them." He sighed, an old pain flashing briefly through his eyes. "It was better this way," he repeated._

_Bran rolled his eyes, the movement only emphasizing the golden brilliance of his gaze. His mouth twisted bitterly, the wrinkles on his nearly seventy-year-old face multiplying ten-fold. "You should have let _us_ decide that," he snapped, and his eyes flashed at the neutral expression on Will's still-youthful features. _

_The immortal's silence persisted, and Bran's own expression darkened still more with the impotent rage he was feeling. "You didn't have the right to forbid us to love you," he growled, frustration now coloring his voice. "You didn't have the right to leave—not like that, at least."_

_Will said nothing in immediate reply, merely shrugging as he turned passive, distant eyes back to his brother's grave. "I was a coward," he admitted freely, "but I couldn't have told them the truth." He glanced at Bran's colorless face for a moment, and then allowed his now grief-darkened eyes to return to Paul's headstone. "They weren't ready for it," he said, "and I left because I knew they never _would_be ready. It was easier, for them, not knowing what I am."_

_Bran growled low in his throat, and his own expression was darker than anything Will had ever seen. "You didn't have to tell them the entire truth," he snarled, "but they deserved _some_ explanation. They never understood why you left, and you hurt them with your unthinking actions. When did you become so cruel, Will?" _

_Will shrugged again, sensing Bran's frustration. "I am of the Light," he said quietly, his voice once again weighted with an ageless sorrow. "We have always been cruel."__He turned suddenly, his expression becoming fierce with an emotion too inhuman for Bran to read. "What would _you_ have done?" Will demanded, ignoring this hurt in the eyes of the only man he had ever named 'beloved'. "I couldn't have abandoned my duty as the Watcher for their sakes, and I couldn't have denied what I was any longer." His eyes suddenly softened, and he could sense the quiet, wordless anguish still pouring from Bran's soul, even after half a century of absence. "I couldn't live the lie anymore, Bran," he murmured._

_Bran's golden eyes were dark, his face as pale as it had been the day Will had first left. "Not even for me?" he asked, voice now as soft as Will's had been. His eyes seemed to reflect the sorrow in Will's own, grief tightening his wizened face._

_Will smiled sadly. "Especially not for you," he murmured gently. "You deserved better than that, Bran, and I would only have hurt you, had I remained." He tilted his head, once again tossing brown locks into his grey eyes. "No matter how much we wanted it," he said, "we could never have lasted. Destiny had other plans for both of us." _

_He shook his dark head, the sad smile lingering on his lips as he swallowed the words still fighting to be said in spite of himself. Then, shrugging wistfully, he suddenly turned and began to walk away. Bran watched him leave, golden eyes wide as he attempted to find the words that would make Will stay, even after this fifty-year absence. Nothing, he knew, would make this mysterious, ever-youthful stranger remain behind, not now. Even ended, the quest, as always, meant far too much._

_Will was almost out of hearing range before Bran found his voice, and the Welshman's golden eyes filled with an ancient, still raw pain as he finally spoke. "Will," he called softly, and his companion stilled his pace without turning his head. Bran stared at Will's departing back, trying not to notice just how young his old lover's body still appeared. Then, shaking his own head, he breathed deeply. "I would have loved you," Bran murmured eventually, voice breaking on the strength of his grief. _

_Will stiffened, but he still would not turn around. "I know," he answered quietly, "and _that's_ why I had to leave." He hesitated, and then, pushing away his own pain, resumed his movements. "Good-bye, Bran," he said, walking away._

_He never looked back…_

Once again, the vision left him, but Will could not stop shaking. His teeth were clenched against the pain still ravaging his mind and body, and he could only draw enough oxygen into his starved lungs to hiss the question that would continue to plague him for all the centuries of his life.

"_Why?"_

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**Venus Smurf's Thoughts of the Day:**

I know I'm never going to understand women--how can you take boiling hot wax, pour it onto your thighs, rip the hair out by its roots, and still be scared of a spider?

When I was young, I used to pray to God for a bike...then I realized God doesn't work that way, so I just stole a bike and prayed for forgiveness.

Two muffins are baking in an oven. The first muffin turns to the second and says, "Crap. It sure is hot in here." The second muffins says, "Holy cow, a talking muffin!"

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	3. The Reason

**Edited December 2007**

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**CHAPTER THREE: **The Reason

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"_Why?"_

Will was gasping, fear and knowledge making his grey eyes widen. He knew, of course, what force must be behind this, but he still couldn't understand. Why was this happening? His enemies might once have been capable of forcing these futures upon him, of leaving these visions in his mind in an attempt to break him, but those of the Dark had been banished outside Time. They shouldn't have been able to attack him like this. Then again, even assuming they'd found a way to breach their prison and reach out to him, how had they known what his fears would be? His true destiny had been one of the greatest secrets of the Light, one kept even from Will himself, so how was it that the Lords of the Dark had guessed what Will had not?

Something wasn't right. Will had always known that he'd been left behind in case the Dark tried to Rise again, but he'd thought he'd have more than half a dozen years before his enemies returned. Their first war had lasted for centuries beyond counting, and their banishment should have been even longer. How, then, were they doing this to him now? His mind desperately sought for an explanation, but the part of him that wasn't quite human was already wondering if, just maybe, the Dark hadn't been completely banished, after all. Perhaps the small seed of evil in all men had been enough to set them free, or had at least given them the power they needed to create this trap for the last of the Old Ones. Was this how they were reaching him—by influencing men? Whatever was in that sack might only be some relic left behind, some object of Power activated through the deeds of their servants still on Earth…or it might be the first sign that the Dark was Rising in spite of everything.

Not that it mattered, of course. Whether or not the Dark had returned, whether or not they'd simply found a way to act through the humans or if this was the precursor for something much worse, was not his greatest concern at the moment. Right now, Will knew, he needed to focus on escaping this trap, on freeing himself from the Dark-born fears that continued to paralyze him. He tried to close his eyes, forcing the panicked fluttering of his mind to still as he focused the full strength of his power onto his own body.

A spell sounded in his thoughts and on his tongue, the gifts of an Old One pushing against the forces of the Dark and spreading warmth through limbs so recently frozen by magic. Light washed against the inside of his eyes and then flared briefly in the air around him, and Will felt his body returning to his own control. He repeated the spell once more, and the light flared a second time, burning away the fears given to him by the Dark. A faint smile twisted his lips, a weight lifting from his shoulders as he allowed his power to fade, but his smile was grim and hard and held no true humor at all. He stared down at the bag, no longer victim to this trap set by the Dark but unable to completely drown out the trepidation still growing within him. The plans of the Dark, he knew, would not be so easy to thwart as this. What else had they in store for him?

But there was no time, now, for wonder or hesitation. Will pointed a single finger at the plain brown grocery bag, eyes like steel as he began whispering in a tongue no true mortal had ever spoken. The words spilled from his lips, musical and lilting but strangely fierce at the same time. He continued chanting for several long moments, the power gaining force within him.

His expression didn't change in the slightest as another strong light flared around the paper bag, burning with an intensity that would have made a human's eyes water. Will, of course, didn't even flinch, but a strange satisfaction was growing in his gaze as the light suddenly faded. Nothing was left of the Old One's power, now, except a single tiny glimmer shining through the brown paper, but Will already knew exactly what it was the Dark had left for him to find.

A warestone, he thought almost tiredly. What else could it be, but one of those small channels of the Dark that had caused so much trouble for him in the past? This, at least, explained how the Dark had been able to attack him thus. His enemies wouldn't have to be free of their prison for this thing to spread its influence into Will's mind, not as long as even a tiny portion of their evil remained on earth to give it strength, not as long as one of their servants still knew enough to send it to the Watchman. Whether or not its masters were present, a warestone would always react this way to the touch or presence of the Light, and Will didn't need to fear that a second Rising had somehow begun.

He breathed a small sigh of relief, no longer quite as worried as he had been. The servants of the Dark, he knew, were still mostly human, and while they might have picked up a few tricks along the way, while they might still pose a limited threat to him, his greatest fears had not yet been realized. In all likelihood, he wouldn't have to face another Rising alone, without the rest of the Circle to guide or aid him.

He smiled, knowing that the Old One in him could sleep a little longer, watching through his eyes but not truly in control. There would be time enough, he thought, to deal with the remaining agents of the Dark later.

The door to his mother's car slid open, then, a pale, concerned and very wet face poking its way through. Will turned to look at his brother, lips curved upward in an unusually brilliant smile. The strangeness of the relief in that smile was not lost on Paul, and he stared back at his younger sibling with something akin to suspicion in his eyes. Will, however, said nothing, and Paul only sighed, unable to think of anything his brother might have been up to that would warrant this suspicion. "Mum wants to know what's taking you so long, Will," he finally said. "You've been out here forever."

He glanced at the bag in front of the youngest Stanton, frowning a little. "That it, then?" he asked, reaching over Will to pick up the bag, not noticing how his brother automatically stiffened as his slender musician's fingers wrapped themselves around the brown paper. Paul, though, didn't have any trouble in picking up the grocery sack—he was not, after all, a true part of the Light, and the warestone wouldn't react to him as it had with Will. For Paul, had he even been able to see the thing, the warestone was simply a small, polished white pebble and nothing more.

The Old One in Will relaxed, thinking that his brother had solved his problem for him. The bag, Will knew, would be taken inside and unloaded, and if he were fortunate enough, the warestone might not even be noticed. It would simply be thrown out with the other garbage, taken away where Will needn't worry about it any longer. This trap would be completely thwarted, and they would all be safe.

Will smiled at his brother, slipping out of the car and turning to follow Paul back into the house. He still hadn't said anything, but the other Stanton was too busy cursing at the rain to notice.

Mary was waiting for them just inside the door, ready to rescue the final grocery bag from her dripping brothers. Paul was still grumbling a little as he handed it off to her, taking a moment to slip out of the wet coat and boots he'd thrown on before he'd gone off to find their absent brother. Will bent and did the same, though his eyes were glued to Mary rather than his shoelaces. He watched her, his smile completely dead, his face once again white with a concern strong enough to make him grateful nobody was looking his way. He took his time with his boots, pretending the laces were knotted and would not come undone, stalling so he wouldn't be expected to help Mary. He knew his siblings would think he was shirking his chores, but he also couldn't risk touching the bag or anything in it himself. To do so, to so much as go near the warestone, would only activate the powers of the Dark yet again, perhaps bring on more visions. Far better, Will thought, to be teased later for his laziness than to awaken an evil best left alone.

He'd forgotten just who he was dealing with in this sister of his. Mary finished putting away the last of the grocery items, crumpling the bag into a small wet lump to be thrown away. For a moment, as she walked up to the garbage pail, Will thought he was safe. Mary lifted her arm, preparing to toss Will's problem in the garbage…and then she froze. A strange expression crossed over her face, a tightness taking over her features. For a moment, she, too, paled, a sort of muted fear dancing through her eyes. Then her arm dropped, and she started straightening out the creases in the bag, started reaching inside.

Will ran for her. Warestone or not, he wasn't about to let his sister come into direct contact with the powers of the Dark. They had taken her over once before, years ago, and he knew her mind would be that much more susceptible because of it. And anyway, no matter how much Mary had matured over the years, she was still Mary, and she had always been more likely to be swayed than, say, Stephen or Barbara. Besides, the warestone was pretty enough for what was essentially a worthless piece of rock, exactly the sort of thing that would appeal to Mary, and she wouldn't think twice about keeping it.

"Mary!" he called, coming as close as he could to her without activating the stone, his voice a little more urgent than he would have liked as he tried to think of something that would distract her. "When are you going to tell me about that new boyfriend?"

She never heard him, though the subject had always been enough to distract her before. His other brothers and sister turned to stare at him, their attention caught by the subtle panic in this normally quiet sibling of theirs. Will didn't bother to turn and look at them, didn't bother to calm himself before he revealed too much. He shouted his sister's name again, not caring that he was being too obvious, knowing he was already too late. "Don't touch it, Mary!"

Her hand was inside the bag, now, her eyes wide and a little too empty. "What?" she asked, tossing the word rather vaguely over her shoulder and clearly not really registering that he'd spoken to her at all. Her attention was entirely on the object she now held in her fist, her mouth forming a little 'O' of pleasure. "Why, it's beautiful!" she exclaimed suddenly, pulling her fingers apart so she could stare down at her new possession. "Look, Will," she said, finally turning to face her little brother and holding out her hand so he could see. "Look what I found!"

"_Get rid of it_." Will's face was white as a sheet, but eyes were hard and cold, completely different from what his family was used to seeing in him. "You don't want to keep that," he told her, voice frozen with all that he was and all that he knew. "It's…not for you, Mary. Please, just throw it away."

Mary was staring at him, as was the rest of his family. "Why would I do that?" she demanded, surprise making her cross. "It's not like there's an ownership label anywhere. Nobody is going to claim it. Besides, I'm the one who found it, so I'm the one who gets to keep it. Why are you being so awful?"

There was something terrible in Will's gaze, something that made each of his family members—but especially Stephen and Paul—stare hard at him. "Please," Will said again, though the word sounded less like a plea and more like a command. He had not taken his eyes from Mary or the thing that she held, but he could feel the curious gazes of his mother and siblings, and chills started dancing up his spine. He knew he was frightening them with his intensity, knew he was drawing too much attention to himself, but this was too important. He couldn't let Mary keep the warestone, because then he'd spend the rest of his time here wondering how much the agents of the Dark could see of his life and his loved ones. This, he thought harshly, was dangerous.

Mary was still glaring at him, but it was Paul who stepped forward—Paul the peacemaker, Paul the wiser older brother trying to stop what he saw as an unreasonable spat between two of his siblings. He moved slowly up to Will, placing one lean, long-fingered hand on his brother's shoulder. Will was tense beneath him, but he turned his head slightly, looking at Paul through the corners of steel-grey eyes. "Will," Paul murmured quietly, the gentleness of his voice not hiding the authority in his words, "you're overreacting. What does it matter if she keeps it? It's just some silly little pebble, not worth anything."

Will ground his teeth with sheer frustration, wanting to explain but knowing he never could. "You're absolutely right," he said, realizing he had backed himself into a corner. He forced a measure of calm onto his face, twisting his lips into a smile just a little too forced. "There's absolutely no reason why she shouldn't have it. No reason at all." He bit his lip, glancing with false apology to Mary. "Sorry, Sis," he muttered. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the kitchen.

* * *

****

Will made certain, that night, to act as normal as possible. He apologized once more to Mary, claiming he was feeling a bit under the weather and so had jumped down her throat for something that didn't really matter at all. She nodded, accepting his apology with all the prim smugness she was capable of, lecturing him for a few moments on treating her properly. Will had only smiled at her, letting her rant to her heart's content. At the same time, though, he'd noticed that her hands were slipping a little too often into her pockets, obviously to check that her newest toy remained safe with her.

Will watched her when nobody else was looking, knowing that the warestone was already working its power on his sister, knowing, too, that he was helpless to stop it. She had yet to put the thing down, but he couldn't interfere anymore than he already had without also putting himself at risk. He would, he decided, simply have to wait until his sister let her guard down and he could...well, nick the stone, probably. He couldn't touch it himself, but there had to be a way to get it out of the house, hadn't there? He was an Old One, a creature of the Light, and he wasn't about to let some silly pebble triumph over him when greater forces than this had failed.

Still, he excused himself from the night's festivities as soon as he feasibly could. He told his mother that he had a headache and wanted only to lie down, and she let him go without question. He smiled at her and slipped from the room, moving slowly up to his own domain in the attic. He had promised her he would go straight to sleep, but instead he stood by the attic window, listening to the rain fall on the roof overhead. He folded his hands behind his back, face only inches from the windowpanes. His eyes were heavy, older than any eighteen-year-old's should be.

Stephen found him there, as he stood looking out into a darkness too thick for ordinary vision. His oldest brother came to stand by him, glancing once at Will and then out into the rain. He remained silent for several long moments, but the silence was like a dead weight between them, and Will found himself almost wishing Stephen would just say whatever it was he had come here for. Finally, though, Stephen sighed, and Will felt a knot forming in his stomach. "You didn't fool me, with that act," Stephen calmly told his brother, his voice emotionless. "What's going on, Will?" he asked, not looking at Will. "What was all that about, this afternoon?"

Will shrugged, unable and unwilling to answer with the truth. "It was nothing," he replied softly. "I…overreacted, though she shouldn't go around touching whatever she fancies without thinking about where it's been. She'll get sick that way."

Stephen snorted. "Right," he said. "It's all about protecting Mary. Suuuure," he muttered, drawing the word out so Will would hear the doubt. "I believe you."

Will's face was now calm and easy, his expression relaxed. "You don't have to believe me," he muttered. "I was only doing my job. That's all that matters."

Stephen finally turned his head to look at his brother, his face appraising and a little too cautious. "Your job?" he repeated, emotionless. "Since when do you have a job?"

Will continued not to say anything, and Stephen grunted again. "All right, fine," he snapped. "Your _job_. What is it, exactly, that you do?"

A hard, cold smile twisted Will's lips, and while he didn't fail to hear the skepticism in Stephen's voice, the immortal in him simply didn't care. "I watch," he answered softly, a world of meaning in his voice that Stephen wasn't expected to understand. "I watch."

* * *

**Venus Smurf's Thoughts of the Day:**

How many honest, intelligent and caring men does it take to do the dishes? Answer: All three of them.

Why be difficult when, with a bit of effort, you can be impossible?

We'll get along fine as soon as you realize I'm God.

I don't have a drinking problem. I drink. I get drunk. I fall down. No problem.

Eat a live toad in the morning. Your day can only improve from there.


	4. The Enemy

Edited December 2007

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR: The Enemy

* * *

Will didn't try to take the warestone away until long after everyone else had gone to sleep, until he knew Mary would be safely tucked in her bed and wouldn't notice the theft he'd been planning for so many hours. He'd lain on his bed as the night wore on, his eyes open and unseeing and oddly patient, and then, when he'd thought the time was right, he'd slowly risen, slipped out of his attic bedroom on inhumanly silent feet.

Will sighed as he began creeping down the stairs towards Mary's room, grateful that his siblings' families wouldn't be arriving for at least another day and he still had his room to himself. It would have been…inconvenient to have someone around as he was trying to sneak out, especially if that someone were Stephen or Paul. Those two were far too perceptive, and it didn't help that Stephen had learned the truth once already. Those memories might have been taken from the eldest Stanton, but Will knew Stephen would never quite be free of the knowledge that his youngest brother wasn't at all what he seemed. It would always be there, the vague suspicion in the back of Stephen's mind, the awareness that Will was a little too odd, and Will didn't want to make things worse.

Will slowly moved into another hallway, his footsteps a little too light for someone of his stocky, muscled build. He couldn't help freezing outside Stephen's door as he passed, because while the door was firmly shut, Will's hearing was quite a bit better than most men's, and he could easily pick out the light snoring coming from the other side.

_Or not so light. Stephen sounds like a foghorn. _

Will smiled a little wistfully over a particularly loud rumble, remembering the times his younger self had snuck into Stephen's room, climbed onto his brother's bed and then fallen asleep to the sound of Stephen's snoring. It had always made him feel safe, for some reason—perhaps because Stephen, who was fifteen years older than Will, had been so much bigger and stronger and seemingly wiser than his youngest sibling. The young Will had known Stephen would protect him, and it wasn't until much later that Will had realized it was _he_ who should be protecting Stephen.

Maybe that was part of the problem that had sprung up between them. Stephen, as the older brother, felt obligated to shield Will from the dangers and uncertainties of being human, and of course he didn't understand that Will wasn't human enough to need that. It had made their relationship uneasy, of late, because although Will felt the urge to protect in measures greater than anything Stephen could ever understand, his big brother could never know it…and it was making both of them unhappy, because neither of them knew quite what their relationship should be anymore.

_Focus, you daft wizard, _Will suddenly reminded himself, and he continued down the hallway.

The youngest of the Old Ones finally came to a stop outside Mary's door, and any trace of his earlier regret was gone. His face had become hard, if also expressionless, and he reached out with one strong hand to turn the knob as slowly and noiselessly as possible. The door slid aside with barely any sound at all, and with one last glance over his shoulder to make certain Stephen still slept, Will slipped through. He paused for a moment on the other side, ensuring that his sister was as asleep as he needed her to be. Mary, he noticed, was curled into a formless bundle of blankets on her bed, and from the sound she was making, it was obvious that she and Stephen were related.

Will might have smiled at that, but instead his face grew pale, his eyes even more serious. Mary's bed, he knew, had always been against the far wall, under the window, but tonight she'd pushed it to the other side. It was now only a few feet from her dresser, and while that shouldn't have meant anything, Will suddenly knew exactly where Mary had placed the warestone.

_Is it really so hard for her to be away from that thing? It's only been a few hours. I hadn't thought she would be so…weak. _

_Or is it just that the warestone is so strong?_

Will stepped around the bed, careful not to brush up against it, then turned swift grey eyes to the small, seemingly innocent pebble on the surface of the dresser. He didn't dare get any closer, didn't dare simply reach out and touch it, because that would only activate the stone, and then he would never be able to get rid of it. A warestone, after all, would cleave to the earth the moment one of the Light came near, taking on a weight so unnatural that nothing save its own masters could have lifted it again. Even Mary might not be able to move the thing, once that happened, and Will knew he could never explain the stone's bizarre weight to anyone else.

Will grimaced, cursing softly, knowing how hopeless this was but realizing he couldn't leave things as they were. He took another step, then one more, feeling the energies inside the warestone increasing a thousand-fold each time he moved. He racked his memories for anything that might help him, but was unable to find a solution. The Light, too, had used stones much like this one to further their own purposes, but Will had never made or used one for himself, and while he could have done so without any problem, he was not an expert on the things. He had never needed to be, because he'd simply never needed to spy on the Dark. The information he'd required to fulfill his own quests had been handed to him from the beginning, setting him free for the more important tasks of finding the Signs and other Things of Power. He might have been more powerful than most of his kind, but this was just a little bit out of his depth.

Will pursed his lips, and his grey eyes narrowed almost threateningly at the warestone. He couldn't just leave it here, he knew, because Mary would still be vulnerable. What could he do, though, when he couldn't even go near the thing? He stared at it for several long moments, his swift, inhuman mind going through every spell he knew.

Perhaps, he suddenly decided, a light dawning in his grey eyes as an idea came to him, he didn't need to get _rid_ of the stone. He only had to hide it, really, to keep it from influencing his overly malleable sister. If he could somehow fix things so Mary wouldn't be able to see it or touch it, this channel of the Dark might not be able to hurt her. She would blame him, of course, would believe that he'd taken it or perhaps that she'd only lost it, but what was her anger in comparison to the alternative of having a sister possessed by the Dark?

Will almost smiled, grateful that he'd been able to find a solution, however temporary. This would, at least, give him time to come up with a better answer to his problems.

Will closed his eyes for a moment, letting the Old One inside himself have complete control, gathering the words he would need. He pointed one sturdy finger at the stone, murmuring softly in the tongue he alone knew. The spell danced over his lips, through the air between himself and the channel of the Dark. Power arched from his outstretched hand, tiny streaks of lightening quickly gathering around the warestone. The energies in the stone flared in instant response, fighting the strength of Will's spell, becoming weaker and stronger and then weaker again. Light flared erratically throughout the room, casting an eerie glow over the furniture and the Mary-lump on the bed, through Will's fierce, tired eyes.

And then it was over. The lights faded, drew back into Will and back into the stone. The youth sagged, though the sudden weariness in his face was more from his emotional turmoil than from any physical draining. He watched, silent as always, as the outline of the stone suddenly wavered and became indistinct. There was a haze around the warestone, now, though Will did not have any trouble seeing through it. The stone was as clear as ever to Will's eyes—and it would not be to Will's family. Their gazes would slide right over it, he knew, their brains fail to register its presence. For them, the warestone was now invisible.

The young man sighed as he turned to leave, an echo of his inhuman self dancing through the sound in spite of his satisfaction with what he'd just done. "Merriman," he whispered softly enough not to wake his sister, slipping over to the door with soundless footsteps, "you really should have chosen someone else for this."

* * *

****

Will had known, when he'd returned to his bed, that he would never be able to go back to sleep. His responsibilities and his failures weighed a little too heavily on his mind, and his thoughts wouldn't still. He simply lay back in his bed, stared up into nothing until morning came.

His eyes grew wide as the hours passed, made sightless by memories of a past nobody else would ever believe could have happened. Will's mind drifted back to adventures in England and Wales and a dozen other places besides, back to the faces of friends and companions now beyond his reach. He wondered, not for the first time, how the rest of his kind were faring. After countless centuries of fighting, had they been able to let go of their purpose in the space of these six years alone? Or were they like Will himself, still clinging to all that had come before because nothing else was left? Perhaps they'd found peace in the knowledge that their part in this was over, in the understanding that they could finally set aside their struggles and rest.

Lying there, letting his mind become entangled in his memories, Will had never felt so alone. His own destiny, he knew, could never be fulfilled, and so the peace the rest of his kind had probably found would never come to him. His task would never end, his uncertainties never fade. He would always be this way, questioning himself, wondering why he'd been chosen for this task. Why had Merriman done this to him? Will didn't even have others like him to help keep away the loneliness, as Merriman had. Will was alone, and nothing could ever have terrified him more.

He rose just before dawn, quickly dressed himself in the previous day's wrinkled shirt and jeans and then wandered down the stairs. Everyone else was still soundly asleep, and Will was glad for this. He'd wanted to have a little time to himself—time to regain control of his emotions and his thoughts before he had to face Mary's wrath, before he had to look in Stephen's eyes and possibly lie once more. His brother hadn't pressed him last night, but Will wasn't stupid enough to think that would last, and he wanted to think up a more feasible excuse for his behavior to Mary before he returned home.

Will quietly left the house, moving into the cold morning air and slipping wraith-like over the fields, not really paying attention to where he was going. His mind was too caught up in his problems, still trying to understand what it was this thing inside him wanted him to do. Was the warestone simply a test, a reminder of the destiny he'd wanted so badly to forget? Perhaps its presence here was only a coincidence, or perhaps he really did have a few mortal enemies remaining in this world.

It was possible, he decided, because he'd been too deeply enmeshed in the final quests to pay attention to all the servants of the Dark, and he hadn't really thought to learn more about them once the Dark had been banished. There hadn't seemed to be much of a point with their masters gone, though Will now found himself wondering what had happened to those like Maggie Barnes. The witch-girl had been noticeably absent these past years, but then everyone had assumed she'd simply packed up and left when Farmer Dawson and his family so suddenly decided to 'go West'. As so many in their small community had done the same, that final year of the quest, most of the remaining humans had dismissed her. Even Max, enamoured of her as he'd been, had moved on. Will's older brother was now engaged to a sophisticated, aloof city girl as unlike Maggie as anyone could be, and he seemed to have forgotten the cheerful, apple-cheeked farm girl he'd chased after for so long.

Will sighed as he walked, thinking that his brother had taken the news of Maggie's departure a little too easily. They all had, really, though Will shouldn't have expected anything less. The Old Ones wouldn't have departed without providing some sort of explanation, after all—they'd all found excuses ready long before they'd gone to the final confrontation between the Dark and the Light, or they'd cast spells that would keep anyone from asking questions no matter what happened in the end. Only Miss Greythorne hadn't done so, perhaps because she'd known that everyone would simply think she had died of old age.

And Maggie Barnes had not, but then she'd never really expected her masters to lose, and she wouldn't have bothered to give a reason even if she had. Of course, nobody had ever thought much of Maggie, even when she'd still been a part of this community, so it hardly mattered that she hadn't had a reason to leave. Too many people had been occupied with Miss Greythorne's death or with the departures of the Old Ones to care about one little-known farm girl, and Maggie's sudden absence had gone pretty much unnoticed.

The thought actually saddened Will, a little, because he knew it was only a matter of time before he would also have to leave. He couldn't stay here forever, he knew, because people would eventually start noticing when he failed to grow old. Would he have to cast a spell over people's minds, erase any memories they might have had of him? Or would he simply disappear as Maggie Barnes had, not leaving anyone behind who actually cared enough for him to wonder where he'd gone? They were old questions, for Will, but ones he was only beginning to answer, and this only made his unhappiness increase.

Will grimaced suddenly, realizing that he hadn't been paying attention to where his feet were taking him. He looked up, twisting his head around to see where he was, cursing himself for being so careless. Then, almost before the familiarity of his surroundings could register, Will froze. His heart stopped, uneasiness stilling the blood in his veins. There was a sudden wrongness in the air, a sense that all was not as it should be. The young Watchman stopped walking, fierce eyes searching the space around him for that which he knew should not be here.

The Dark had found him again…

* * *

**Venus Smurf's Thoughts of the Day:**

Try praising your wife, even if it does frighten her at first.

I was nauseous and tingly all over. I was either in love or I had smallpox.

Make a list of important things to do today. At the top of your list, put 'eat chocolate.' Now, you'll get at least one thing done today.


	5. Return of the Grey King

Edited December 2007

* * *

CHAPTER FIVE: Return of the Grey King

* * *

The field Will had come to was nothing special. It was just a field, an empty place that was exactly like all the other unused spaces in this area. Snow lay in a thick blanket over the earth, forcing animals and plants that normally would have been there into their winter-long sleep. Sunlight, made pale by the earliness of the hour, glinted in the snow, and a bird trilled softly from some unseen tree or bush. It was quiet, peaceful. Innocent.

Only Will knew differently. Somehow, defying all logic, the Dark had made this place into a temporary home. It was theirs, now, and Will was made all the more helpless for it. The presence of the Dark was so heavy, so stifling, that Will's own powers became instantly muted in response. The spells that always seemed to come to him with every little thought were gone, pushed back and suppressed. He was more vulnerable now than he'd ever been, and the awareness of that vulnerability was painful to him.

The irony of it all was that Will might have been safe had he gone just a few meters in the other direction. An Old Way lay to the north of him, and the powers of the Dark might have been weakened, had Will's feet trod that path instead. And yet, Will found himself thinking, perhaps even the added help of the Old Way might not have been enough. The immortal youth could sense the strength of the Dark, could sense the opposition surrounding him. The darkness was greater than Will would ever have expected, and he was beginning to suspect that he might just be outmatched. Even he, with all his Gifts, couldn't hope to fight against this much power, at least not without being irreparably damaged in return.

Of course, Will's uneasiness still did not show in his handsome face. His expression didn't change in the slightest, his features remaining as hard as stone and revealing nothing. He remained perfectly calm, perfectly controlled, though he was also trying to understand why he hadn't been assaulted. What was the Dark waiting for? He could sense their power, knew they had more than enough to damage him, perhaps even to cast him out of this world. They were strong enough to do whatever they wanted to him, but nothing had happened. They weren't even trying to trick him with the visions, as they had before. Why?

He lifted his face to the sky, peering into the sunlight with eyes that saw more than they should have. The evils of the Dark, he noted grimly, hung like a thick cloud above him, terrible and malevolent but probably completely invisible to the human senses. It pushed down on him, trying to stifle him even more yet still not bringing its full force on him as he would have expected it to. It was threatening enough, of course, but that was all it was, and Will found himself growing ever more uneasy. What did the Dark plan for him this time?

Will continued to stare up into the sky, absently noting that in the last few minutes, the world had gotten lighter. The idea that the sun was doing its best to shed light in spite of the Dark gave Will a small measure of comfort, though he couldn't have explained why, and he turned again to the heavy cloud hanging above him.

"What do you want with me?" he demanded, now keeping his voice steady without any great effort. The Old One within was taking control again, and he couldn't have been completely afraid even if he'd wanted to be. His dual nature wouldn't allow for fear, not when something important was happening.

The darkness above him didn't respond. Will was not greeted in any way, was not given even the smallest clue as to what the Dark planned, but then he'd more or less expected that. He sighed, and his grey eyes narrowed. He brought his gaze down from the sky, shoving his numb hands into his pockets for warmth. Then, without even a trace of his uneasiness showing in his face, he looked back up at his formless enemy.

"Who are you?" he quietly asked, his voice sounding completely free of any actual interest in the answer though inside he was holding his breath. "The Lords of the Dark were banished beyond Time, and none of them were powerful enough to have escaped the bonds of the High Magic. You cannot be of the Dark." He paused, pretending to consider even though, of course, he knew that presence _was_of the Dark. It couldn't be anything else. "And yet," he added softly, "I feel its presence. Were you some toadie of the Dark Lords, perhaps, left behind after your masters failed? Is that why I find their taint on you?"

The powers above him drifted a little lower at that, coming towards the ground and settling in a thick, grey-white mist around Will. It seemed to solidify, just a little, but the boy did nothing more than plant his feet against the ground and brace himself for a blow that didn't come. He waited, wondering if his taunt would have the desired effect, wondering if he would succeed in drawing out his enemy. The Lords of the Dark were too arrogant _not_to respond to his slurs, and he hoped the slight would drive this creature to answer. "Who are you?" he asked again. "What do you want of me, plaything of the Dark?"

A breeze wrapped its way around Will's body, making him shiver with the sudden cold. He tried to wrap his jacket a little tighter around himself, giving up only when the Dark finally responded. A single voice came from out of the mist and out of the breeze, teasing Will's ears but remaining too low for him to understand the words. His eyes narrowed still more, and he cocked his head to one side, vainly trying to hear. Finally, though, he only shook his head. "I can't understand," he confessed almost apologetically. "I can't hear you."

The breeze came again, and with it the ghostly words, but they were not any louder than before. Will listened anyway, trying to pick out what was being said, and then, as the breeze returned for a third time, he thought he could finally understand.

_Did you really think, _this presence whispered into his mind, causing Will to shiver again at the strange familiarity of it, _that the strength of the Dark was banished forever, or that it was banished at all? Did you really believe you were safe? _The voice laughed, and it was not a pleasant sound. _You banished the self-proclaimed Lords of the Dark, but you could not banish _me._I am stronger than all of them together, too great to be contained by your damned High Magic. You should have known that, Old One. You should have known that I could not be defeated so easily._

Will's eyes widened. He _knew_ that voice, he realized. He'd heard it twice before, many years ago in a field in Wales and later by an enchanted lake, and nothing could have banished the memory of a confrontation that had almost destroyed Bran, and of course Will himself.

It was the voice of the _Brenin Llwyld. _

The Grey King had returned…

* * *

Stephen never quite knew what awakened him that morning. He was normally a light sleeper, and years of training had taught him to rise with the dawn each day. It should have been no different now that he was home. And yet, perhaps being in his childhood bedroom, hearing the not-so-soft breathing of his brothers—Max alone sounded like a dying animal, and Stephen could hear him even from the other room—had lulled him into complacency, because the sun was already well on its way before the oldest of the Stanton sons was able to push away the last vestiges of sleep. He rose slowly from his bed, shoving at the covers and lurching ungracefully to his feet. He still felt tired, as though he had not slept in weeks, and his body was a little too stiff after sleeping on so soft a bed.

He stood, pulled on the first set of passably clean clothes he could find. Then, after wasting another minute looking for a sweater to wear, Stephen slowly trailed down the stairs to the kitchen. His mother was already there, mixing the batter for what he supposed would later be pancakes or biscuits, and he smiled at her as he entered. "Morning, Mum," he called to her, watching as she added some other ingredient to her bowl and started mixing it in. "Everyone else still asleep?"

She nodded, a little too distracted by what she was doing to really pay attention to him. "Everyone but Will," she answered softly, keeping her voice low so she wouldn't wake her other children. "And your father, of course. He's out with the livestock." She glanced over her shoulder at him, smiling tiredly. "I think Will went for a walk. He does that, now and then. Claims it helps him think." She shrugged. "That's debatable, of course."

Stephen laughed as he was meant to, but his laugh was not even remotely genuine. "And what," he cheerfully demanded of his mother, "does a boy his age need to think about? He hasn't got a girl on his mind, has he?"

She shook her head, also chuckling. "Not _our_Will," she said. "I don't think he's ever noticed a girl in his life. I wish he would, but he doesn't."

Stephen nodded. He had his own suspicions about why his youngest brother had never seemed interested in members of the fairer sex, but it wouldn't do to share that with his mother. His parents weren't exactly against that sort of thing and probably wouldn't care as long as Will was happy, but Stephen didn't have any proof. As far as he knew, Will wasn't interested in _anybody_, male or female. He always seemed too occupied with his own thoughts to think about another human being in that way, though Stephen had noticed, on more than one occasion, how Will's eyes tended to light up whenever a certain albino Welshman was mentioned.

Stephen's mother sighed suddenly, the humor leaving her eyes. "I wish I knew what was bothering him," she muttered, perhaps forgetting that her other son was even in the room. "He's been so unhappy lately, but he keeps insisting that nothing is wrong. I wish he would talk to me." She shook her head. "He's worrying me, Stephen. The way he behaved towards Mary last night, the way he's been distracted ever since everyone came home…I don't like it. Something's wrong."

Stephen moved over to her, hearing the genuine sorrow in her voice, and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry about it, Mum," he told her. "Will make act like he's older than I am sometimes, but he's still a teenager, and you know how moody teenagers can get. It's probably nothing." He smiled at her, trying to shake off his own unease. "I'll have a word with him, if you like," he offered. "Maybe it's just something he could tell another man but wouldn't tell his mother."

She didn't get the chance to respond. Before she could say anything, before she could accept or thank him for his attempts to comfort her, a disheveled James sauntered into the room. Stephen frowned, watching as his younger brother immediately seated himself at the table, clearly expecting food. _It's like he never moved out, _Stephen thought, rolling his eyes in spite of everything.

Stephen opened his mouth to mock James, but a second later, several more pairs of feet were pounding on the stairs, creating a racket that would have wakened the dead, and Stephen knew the opportunity to voice his own fears was gone.

* * *

Breakfast didn't last long. With so many people trying to get their fair share of the meal, nothing remained on the table for more than a few minutes. And, what with relatives arriving and all the tasks that came with it, nobody really had time to linger. So, soon enough, the food was gone, the dishes were put away, and everybody else had retired to their own activities.

Only Stephen was any different. He'd saved up quite a bit of his shore leave, and so was not in any rush to get back. He didn't have anywhere to be or anything in particular to accomplish. His mother tried to put him to work, of course, but he avoided that, too, claiming he needed to check on Will first.

Perhaps Anne was still worried, because she let her oldest son go without saying anything else. He hurried away, climbing the stairs to Will's bedroom two at a time even though he didn't really believe Will would be there. The rest of the family would have known if the youngest boy had come home yet, but it seemed as good a place as any to start looking.

Stephen was up the stairs and halfway down the hall when he first heard the noise, and he stopped walking to listen. For a second, he could have sworn he'd heard a voice coming from the attic, though it was not the sort of sound that generally came from a human throat. It was too deep, too full of gravel to be human, and Stephen froze, tilting his head to hear better, surprise tightening his features as the voice came a second time. Crazy as the idea was, Stephen thought someone was calling out from the attic, though the sounds were more like what a beast would make if it tried to form human speech than anything else, and he couldn't quite make it out.

Almost in spite of himself, Stephen started walking again, going the short distance through the remainder of the hallway and over to the second set of stairs that led to Will's bedroom. He could still hear the voice echoing down the stairwell, harsh and grating. It chilled Stephen to the core, awakened some ancient, instinctive and all but forgotten fear deep inside, but it couldn't stop his curiosity, couldn't keep him from wondering just what might be in Will's bedroom.

Certainly not Will himself, he decided, though none of the others would have listened to something so chillingly strange. What could possibly make a noise like that? Perhaps it was just a recording of some kind; Will was always picking up odd things from odd places, and Stephen couldn't discount the possibility. Still, there was something…otherworldly about this voice, and Stephen also couldn't quite shake the feeling that this whatever-it-was might be a lot less mundane than that.

Fortunately or not, the voice had stopped by the time Stephen completed his climb up the stairs, but this didn't ease the knot of trepidation forming deep in the pit of his stomach, and he pushed the door to Will's bedroom aside with more caution than he might have used otherwise. He slipped inside, keeping the door open behind him, and moved into Will's bedroom.

He paused just past the threshold, looking around with a mixture of curiosity and barely suppressed nervousness. Will's bedroom, though, was as it had always been. Perhaps it was a bit messier than Will usually kept it, what with his two brothers' things scattered everywhere, but nothing seemed to be out of place. Will's odds and ends were placed neatly on their shelves, his bed made with a soldier's precision. The room was colder than was strictly necessary even in this dreary season, but that was only because one of the boys had left the window open, and frigid winter air was blowing, unhindered, into the attic. There was nothing else.

Stephen bit his lip, not quite able to dismiss his uneasiness. He walked across the room to the window, pausing to look out across the fields. There was nothing out there, either, to ease this tingling of his senses, or to explain away the voice he still didn't know if he'd really heard. As far as he could tell, nothing moved in the cold wetness around his home. He shrugged, reaching out to pull the window closed, and then turned around to leave. There was nothing here, he told himself. Perhaps he was just going crazy.

He didn't make it out of the room. Before he'd gone more than a step or two, something not entirely unexpected caught his eyes, and he stopped once more. He turned his head to one side, looking at one of Will's more disturbing pieces from the corner of his eyes. The West Indian carnival head Stephen himself had sent to Will, all those years ago, was squatting in one corner of Will's bedroom, too large to fit on any of the shelves. Shadows pooled around it, even in the wan morning light, and Stephen walked slowly over to it, not quite knowing why this thing had caught his attention at all.

It was a strange thing, admittedly, and Stephen didn't even remember why he'd chosen this for Will's combination birthday and Christmas present at all. It was, after all, not something most people would want as a decoration. Will had said, in one of his rare, unguarded moments, that the head was neither beautiful nor ugly, that it just _was,_but Stephen didn't agree. It was very ugly indeed, in Stephen's eyes, with its not-quite-human features and the not-quite-antler horns curving out from its skull. It was not only animal, or only human, but an unsettling mixture of both, and Stephen privately thought Will must often get nightmares from sharing the same room with it. Still, Will must have liked it well enough, because it lacked even a speck of dust, even the hint of a spider's thin web. Will very obviously took care of it.

Stephen stared at it for several long moments, shivering slightly in spite of himself. He'd fought in more than his share of bar fights and even the occasional sea battle, had encountered more of the shadier side of man than his parents could ever guess, but this present of Will's was unnerving him like nothing else ever had. There was something vaguely sinister about this carnival head, and Stephen found himself glancing rather nervously away from the yellow-gold owl's eyes that stared knowingly back at him, away from the slight smile curving what might have been human lips in another face. This head, impossible as that was, seemed almost alive, and Stephen's uneasiness was growing again. Maybe it was haunted. And even if he didn't really believe it could be, what had possessed him, to send this thing to a twelve-year-old and very impressionable child? No wonder Will seemed to have so many problems…

He spun on his heel, intending to leave. Will's odd tastes aside, he didn't want to be in the same room with this thing any longer than he had to. Maybe he could convince his little brother to put it away somewhere, at least for the duration of Stephen's visit. He didn't even care if that made him seem childish in Will's eyes, didn't care that James would probably tease the life out of him if he ever heard that mighty Stephen Stanton was…unsettled by a simple, albeit ugly, carnival piece. This thing was evil, or at least as close to it as an inanimate object could be, and Stephen's well-honed instincts were prompting him to leave it alone.

The head had other plans. Stephen made it all the way to the door, that time, before the voice started up again, and he froze, one foot already out in the hallway but entirely helpless to go any farther than that. A single word was being whispered at him, though this time he couldn't quite decide if it was in his ears or only in his mind. It seemed to come from everywhere all at once, from every corner of the room but also from deep within himself.

"_Watcher…"_

The word was no longer a whisper, though if it wasn't just in his head, it was still quiet enough that Stephen doubted anyone else in the house had heard. His mouth went dry, his stomach knotting further even as he forced himself to turn back around. He slowly twisted his body back towards the carnival head, knowing instinctively that this was where the voice was coming from.

He wished, even as he was turning, even as he found himself staring into the somnolently blinking owl's eyes of the carnival head, that he could have been wrong. But he wasn't, because even at one glance he could see that the head was no longer a thing of paint and wire and papier-mâché. The grotesque features had seemed alive enough before, but now the paint looked more like skin, the wire and paper almost like muscle and bone. Stephen could see the way the once smiling mouth had twisted with irritation—or had it always been that way, and he'd just imagined the smile?—could see how those new muscles twitched under paint made flesh.

"_Watcher…,"_the word came again, and while the head's lips weren't moving, there wasn't any doubt, anymore, of where it had come from. Still, Stephen couldn't even wonder what it meant, or what it wanted, or how it could form words at all. All he could register was that the carnival head had come to life…and it was talking to him.

* * *

**Venus Smurf's Thoughts of the Day:**

The 12-step chocoholics program: NEVER BE MORE THAN 12 STEPS AWAY FROM CHOCOLATE!

How can I believe in God when just last week I got my tongue caught in the roller of an electric typewriter?


	6. Better Luck Next Time

Edited December 2007

* * *

CHAPTER SIX: Better Luck Next Time

* * *

To his credit, Stephen didn't faint, or scream, or even cry out as the giant carnival head he'd sent to his brother so long ago came to life and began talking to him.

Stephen didn't make any sound at all, in fact, though perhaps this was simply because shock had paralyzed his tongue. Even in his wildest dreams and in his worst nightmares, Stephen Stanton could never have anticipated something like this happening to him, and he didn't quite know how to react. Should he be awed, terrified? He was both, of course, because after all _the bloody carnival head was talking to him_, but at the same time he wasn't as surprised as he probably should have been. Though he could not have known it, the part of himself that had once been given the truth about his youngest brother, the part that should have been lost but still teased the edges of his consciousness, had seen enough changes in Will's behavior to sense that something was wrong.

And even the part of Stephen that hadn't retained any knowledge or extra awareness of his brother had realized that something inside Will himself had changed. Will had always been an odd young man, strangely silent and enigmatic for one who should have been a simple English farm boy. There was an inexplicable air of mystery about him, or at least of elusiveness, but Will had become even odder these past few days, and neither the sleeping part of Stephen nor the rest of him could have failed to notice that. The boy had become far too tense, his behavior erratic and reasonless.

Stephen had also, in moments when Will hadn't thought anyone was looking his way, seen how Will's eyes sometimes became haunted with what Stephen thought was naked loneliness, and dread, and possibly resignation. Will was behaving as though his world was falling apart and he could do nothing to stop it. What, though, could a not-quite eighteen-year-old boy be so worried about?

Whatever Will was afraid might happen, Stephen knew the carnival head was involved. This inanimate object had somehow been given life and voice, was looking at Stephen and speaking to him, and of course that alone would have been all the proof Stephen needed. Stephen just couldn't decide _how_ the carnival head might be involved, or what it meant for Will. Did his little brother even know this thing could come alive? Stephen didn't think so, because Will was too smart to get involved with something like that, and he wouldn't have kept it if he knew what it could do.

Then again, Will certainly viewed this thing with an emotion awfully close to reverence, and that could only be explained if Will thought there was something…special about this old gift of Stephen's. So perhaps he _did_know that it lived, but didn't realize how evil this thing really was. Maybe he thought the head was innocent, and magical, and so didn't suspect that he might be in danger from it.

Stephen wasn't about to let anything happen to Will. He had always felt a compulsion to protect his youngest brother, and maybe that was why he found himself moving slowly, steadily forward. He didn't stop until he was only a few inches away from the carnival head, and he bent his knees, kneeling in front of it so he could stare directly into those creepy and strangely familiar owl's eyes. His voice, when he finally forced himself to speak, was quiet and a trifle breathless. "What do you want?" he asked it, trying to sound stern and unafraid but knowing he wasn't even remotely succeeding.

The head blinked slowly at him, and Stephen, as he gazed back, suddenly found himself wondering how he could have thought this thing was completely evil. There was a certain cruelty in the face, still, but there was also a trace of genuine humor in the yellow depths of the eyes, and faint laugh lines around the firm mouth. Could a being devoid of goodness be capable of humor? Maybe, maybe not, but Stephen could no longer say with a certainty that this head meant ill for his brother.

He also couldn't say that it didn't.

"_Watcher…"_ the head repeated in its gravelly voice, and Stephen sighed, thinking that was all he would ever get out of it. He opened his mouth to repeat the question he already believed was useless, but was not allowed to go on. The head's mouth was moving again, now in harsher, more urgent tones.

"_Watcher,"_it said again, but this time it didn't stop. "_I seek the Watchman of the Light." _The words were surprisingly formal and even, and uncomfortably coherent. "_Where is Will Stanton, the Sign-Seeker?"_

Stephen gaped at the head, almost completely forgetting his earlier fear but still shocked by the mention of his little brother's name. "Will? What does he have to do with this?" He paused, then added, "And what are you, anyway?"

The head didn't bother to answer his questions. Perhaps it had realized that Will was not there and wouldn't be making an appearance any time soon, because it only looked back at Stephen with its inhuman eyes. "_Tell the Watcher," _it said suddenly, "_that the Huntsman would speak with him. Tell Will Stanton that the Dark is Rising, and he is out of time."_

* * *

Will hadn't been completely human in a very long time. He wondered, sometimes, if he had ever been, but that issue aside, being an Old One meant that he was also no longer capable of experiencing purely human emotions. Though he had never quite acknowledged it, Will couldn't, for instance, love as only a human can love, with all his heart and no thought to the consequences. Love meant sacrificing everything just to keep one person safe, meant giving all of himself and holding nothing back, and Will couldn't do that anymore. He had too many people depending on him, had too many secrets too dangerous to share. He couldn't trust anyone else with the knowledge of what he was or what he could do, and since love can't exist without trust, Will Stanton wasn't capable of real love, of human love.

He also wasn't capable of being afraid the way humans are afraid. Human fear often meant needing to protect oneself, meant doing whatever was necessary to stay safe from pain and loss and death. Will understood all that, might even share a little of it, but it wasn't the same with him. For Will, there was no sense of self. There was only the quest, the knowledge that nothing he endured, that nothing he was or had been or wanted to be would matter if he could not keep the Dark from Rising again. He wasn't afraid of getting hurt, as most humans would be. He wasn't afraid of losing everything, of dying and worse than dying. He was only afraid of losing to the Darkness, of not preventing the end of the world, and that wasn't generally a concern most humans have.

Still, perhaps his lack of human fear was the reason why Will could stare up into what should have been a bright sky over an empty field, see instead that dark cloud of evil, and not feel any desire to run. Anyone else would have bolted by now, or at least would have wished to, but the idea never even occurred to Will. As the Dark bore down on him, he only gazed back with clear grey eyes, his handsome features set in a rugged mask of stone that revealed nothing of the uneasiness he was really feeling. "The Grey King," he whispered, his voice soft and calm even though his mind was whirling with the impossibility of it. "I never would have guessed."

That was true enough, though he knew he should have. The Brenin Llwyld had always been the greatest of the Dark Lords, more powerful and more mysterious than any other, or even all others. If anyone could escape the prison of the Light, it was he. And yet, Will was having a difficult time accepting the situation. Even the Grey King, powerful and ancient as he was, should not have been capable of such an escape. The power of the High Magic was absolute, and not even the Grey King's strength should have been enough to defy it. How, then, had he done this?

Will continued gazing at the sky, watching as what was supposedly his enemy roiled in a dark mass overhead, invisible to the human eye but never to his. "How did you do it?" he asked bluntly. "How did you escape?"

He thought he could hear what might have been laughter, though it was so dark and so deep within his mind that it might have been something else entirely. _I didn't have to, _the voice whispered in instant reply, and though the Old One didn't even remotely trust this creature, the words were forthright enough that Will thought he might be telling the truth. Perhaps the Grey King simply didn't have any reason to lie. _I knew what the fate of my kind would be, long before the final battle started. How could I not? The High Magic claims not to take sides, but the Light was clearly favored. The High Lords didn't wish this world to end, or to be under the control of the Dark, and even the Wild Things of the earth and sea were caught in your spell. I saw that as clearly as I see you now, and so I did not pit all of myself against you, that final day. I retained the bulk of my power, and thus was not cast out by the High Magic at the last._

Will nodded. In an odd sort of way, the explanation made sense. He'd had only a very limited experience with this being, but even Will had known that the Grey King never involved himself very deeply in confrontations between the Light and the Dark, not even when he believed he could win. He'd always been content to hide away on his mountaintop, standing guard over the hidden treasures and sleeping warriors of the Light, preying on the occasional wanderer into his territory. Even during their first confrontation, the Grey King had attacked Will only through others, through his foxes and his deceptions and once through the mind of a pathetic but still very dangerous man. Not even Merriman had ever faced the Brenin Llwyld directly, and it didn't surprise Will to learn that this Lord of the Dark had withheld his power during that final battle. It only surprised him that he was being told this at all, and that it had taken the King so long to resurface. What did he plan, now that he was free?

Will peered up at his enemy, grey eyes narrowing, forehead wrinkling with a frown. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked, genuinely puzzled, his curiosity great enough to keep his voice free of any true animosity even though he hated this being nearly as much as he could hate anyone.

The dark cloud was solidifying again in answer, once more becoming something a little more tangible than it had been. It swirled around Will, close enough that he could feel the biting cold of it against his skin. He shivered, but didn't look away and didn't back down. He simply waited for an answer, knowing the Dark would respond in one way or another. He was not disappointed.

_You and I are the only ones of our kind left, _the Grey King's inhuman voice murmured into Will's mind. _The last of the Light, and the last of the Dark, and the greatest both had to offer. _

Nothing else was said, but Will understood well enough, now. He laughed, though the sound was harsh and disbelieving and more than a little disdainful. "An alliance?" he snapped. "Is that what all this was about?"

_We could be strong together, you and I. _

Will snorted, for a moment sounding almost completely human. "Yes," he agreed easily, shaking his head and sending wisps of brown hair into his eyes. "Except for the fact that we were very literally made to fight each other. Even if I was willing to be your ally, even if I really believed _you_were willing, it wouldn't work. We would always be seeking dominance over each other, contending in a lesser version of what came before. What strength can there be, in that?"

_This world is big enough for both of us. We needn't fight. _

Will shook his head again, the disdain gone from his features and, oddly enough, replaced by resignation. "It is the way of things," he replied softly. "We create balance in our very opposition. Were we to join together, that balance would be destroyed, and perhaps we would be, as well. I don't think even you would want that."

Will's words were met with only silence, a silence that, for a moment at least, was curiously free of animosity. Then…

_You were wasted on the Light, Watchman. You could have been great, had you chosen the Dark instead. I might almost regret destroying you._

The words had barely registered in Will's brain, before the much-anticipated attack came. The full force of the Grey King suddenly came bearing down upon him, the powers of this King of the Dark wrapping around him, stifling him, choking him. A chill had seeped into his very bones, into his blood and his heart and his soul. It drained his strength and his gifts, brought him to his knees with the sheer force of the Dark-wrought despair.

And, oh gods, the _visions_…

Will had thought that which he'd glimpsed in the warestone had been terrible enough. He would always be haunted by the possibilities he'd seen, by the losses he was already beginning to mourn though they hadn't even happened yet and might never happen at all. And yet, as awful as those first visions had been, as real as they'd seemed, they were nothing in comparison to that which was now flashing through his mind.

Somehow, the Dark Lord was dredging up every memory Will had ever had, every moment of joy and contentment and loss and despair and fear. He was reliving everything he had ever done, every emotion he'd ever felt and every thought he'd ever had, and it was not even remotely bearable because it was happening all at once. His mind was being stretched into a thousand big moments and a million small moments that he'd all but forgotten and gods did it hurt because no mind was meant to bend this way and was it never going to end?

Will cried out, all but breaking under the weight of memories piled upon memories, under the weight of so many emotions he'd struggled enough with the first time around. The boy that was Will was slowly being driven insane by this burden, and even the Old One that was also Will was fighting not to break under the pressure. And somewhere, deep inside and under everything else, Will was wondering how in the world one of the Dark could do this to him. He should have been able to protect himself more than he was, but now it was all he could do to keep his mind intact. Where were his gifts, his strengths as an Old One? _It wasn't supposed to be like this…_

And then, suddenly, it _wasn't_like that. In that moment when Will thought he simply couldn't take anymore, in that moment when he was finally almost willing to give up and just let go of himself, to let the darkness take him, he found that he simply didn't have to. Images were still flashing through his mind, still piling on top of each other, but…but it was suddenly different, because the part of Will's mind that was as old as the earth itself was taking control again, almost in spite of Will and almost in spite of that older self. That part of himself was starting to separate faces from the blur of everything else, was starting to focus on one moment rather than all of them, and he found that this was all he'd needed to save himself. Concentrating on one moment, on one person and what that meant to him, remembering the bad and remembering the good but not having to remember them together…it was enough to force the darkness back.

Will's eyes had slammed shut when the Dark had attacked, his knees and the palms of his hands pressing hard into the wet earth and wetter, mostly winter-dead grasses of the field. Now, though, as his strength returned and he was finally able to throw off the terrible pressures of the Dark, his eyes slowly opened again, and he pushed himself away from the ground. He couldn't quite force himself to his feet, yet, and succeeded only in leaning back on his heels, but it was better than nothing. He could feel the dew from the grass sinking into his knees, could feel the bits of earth clinging to his hands, and somehow this was enough to stop the shaking of his body. He gazed up into the sky, still breathing hard, eyes narrowed with anger. "Better luck next time, Your Majesty," he muttered, his voice very sarcastic and thus very human.

The Brenin Llwyld didn't give an answer, but Will hardly felt the need to wait for one. The young man simply stood, looked up at a sky suddenly much lighter than it had been. He could still sense the Grey's King's evil, could still sense the heaviness that always came with the presence of the Dark, but he knew his enemy was no longer quite with him. The Lord of the Dark was retreating from this conflict, probably only leaving to plan his next attack yet still going. Will shook his head, knowing he needed time to recover himself, and, without a backwards glance, turned and walked away.


	7. Return of the Oldest

Edited December 2007

* * *

CHAPTER SEVEN: Return of the Oldest

* * *

Will trudged across the fields, head bowed with weariness, heart heavy with knowing, but he did not, in the end, simply go home. No matter how tired he was, no matter how greatly he wished to return to his room and let sleep wash away at least a few of his problems, he knew he wouldn't find any peace at home. He would only find more problems, because he would still have to deal with Mary and her warestone, with Stephen and whatever questions Will suspected he would have by now, and he wasn't quite up to that.

So he turned aside, letting his feet trod another path, a safer path. He still didn't have any particular destination in mind, but that didn't really matter. He let the Old Way determine his route for him, knowing it provided some measure of protection no matter where it led, knowing he could always find his way home again.

He walked for a very long time, caught up in his own thoughts as the morning dew was eventually burned away under the rising sun, as his body began aching with a weariness that came more from the walk itself than from his recent battle with the Dark. Minutes slipped away, one after another, and still he continued on. He chose not to remember that he really did need his rest and so should go home, chose to ignore the knowledge that his family was probably wondering where he'd gone and were maybe getting worried for him. It was easy to dismiss all that, because the part of him that was only a young man was wishing he didn't have to go back at all. What was waiting for him there, but more troubles? Nothing would be peaceful or simple at home, and even if nothing was simple here, either, aimless wandering still seemed like the better option.

And yet, Will knew he couldn't keep going like this forever. He had plans to make, sisters to save. He had responsibilities. So, with a deep sigh, he turned and began walking back in the general direction of his home.

He was halfway home before he noticed the tall, grey building nestled in the hills only a short distance away. The Greythorne manor seemed to jump out at him as he crested a hill of his own, though of course the building had always been there and he shouldn't have been so startled to see it. He paused, turning aside to gaze at the manor, a small, bittersweet smile playing across his lips.

From here, the building looked as it always had—elegant, imposing, ancient and ageless at the same time. Will sighed again, shook his head. No matter how little this building had changed to the mortal eye, he knew it was no longer the haven it had once been. The Lady was gone, and with her the protections the Light had once placed over her manor, and now it was nothing more than an empty building, one beginning to decay after so many years of neglect. Even this was lost to him, it seemed.

Will began to turn away again, sorrow still flaring over his strong features, but once again he found himself pausing. Something was moving at the edge of his vision, slipping between overgrown and untended hedges, over ground where nothing living should be. His eyes widened, then narrowed, his gaze sharpening and a brief, quiet cry pushing past his lips in spite of himself. The cry, though, ended almost before it had begun, as the tall, bearded figure he'd thought he'd seen standing in the courtyard of the Greythorne manor was gone as quickly as he had come, disappearing in the time between Will's heartbeats, in the quick, disbelieving blink of his grey eyes.

_Merriman!_

Will stood, his body frozen by a shock greater than any he had ever experienced in battle. Had he really seen who he thought he'd seen? Or was this another hallucination brought on by the Dark? But then, it couldn't be, because he would have sensed the presence of his enemies, wouldn't he? Perhaps it was only his own imagination, an image wrought more from Will's desire for his old master's assistance than from anything else.

Or, and Will thought this might just be an even more terrifying possibility, Merriman might actually have been there, watching Will, perhaps waiting for him.

The young man didn't make any move either to turn away or to go forward. He was completely immobilized by indecision, not knowing if he should seek out Merriman, not knowing if this was just the man's way of telling his Watchman he was still there, maybe waiting to help, or maybe just assuring Will that he wasn't crazy, that the Dark really was here and that Will really would have to fight again.

And maybe he was here as a warning, reminding Will that he couldn't rest, couldn't let his guard down no matter what. The Grey King had other messengers, other servants, and even though Will had held his own against the Brenin Llwyld just a little while ago, even though he had successfully driven away the Grey King, that didn't mean he was safe, or that he could relax.

Will shook himself, blinked like a man coming out of a long sleep. His lips twisted in a half smile of self-chastisement, and he turned to face the manor, tilting his head slightly in acknowledgement of what he now believed Merriman's message to be. _Go home, _Merriman had been telling him, _ready yourself for that which is to come. Stop wandering through these hills as though you are only a man like other men, as though you aren't in almost as much danger from the servants of the Grey King as from the Brenin Llwyld himself. _

Will's eyes narrowed even more, but the question of whether or not he should go after his old teacher had already been answered. If Merriman Lyon had wished to speak with him, he would have. That he chose not to was a message in itself, though not one Will wished to think about too much. The young man only grimaced, looked again to where his once-master had been, and, seeing nothing, turned and walked away for the second time in one morning.

* * *

Stephen had come to the conclusion that he was not meant to understand any of what was happening to him. He didn't understand how the carnival head had come to life, didn't understand what its purpose was or what it wanted with Will. He didn't understand the message he had been given, or why it had been given to him at all. He only knew that he was terrified for Will, and not at all looking forward to the confrontation he would inevitably have with his brother.

_Will. Gods, who are you, little brother?_

Stephen glanced over his shoulder, back towards the house and the tiny attic room where he'd left Will's horrid, living decoration. The thing had gone silent the instant after its warning had been delivered, and while Stephen admittedly hadn't pressed too hard, he hadn't gotten another word out of it. There hadn't been any explanations, any assurances or promises or even just a little more information. There hadn't been anything but the lingering sense of confusion and of course fear, of doubt and, far underneath everything else, a barely acknowledged relief that his suspicions about Will had been justified.

On the other hand, maybe he should be wishing that he'd just been imagining the strangeness he'd always seen in his stocky, clear-eyed brother?

Whatever he should be feeling, the eldest Stanton hadn't seen the need to stick around in the same room with the possessed carnival head, and he'd bolted the moment he realized he wouldn't get anything more out of it. He'd told himself that it would simply be easier for him to spot Will from the more open yard than from the tiny attic window, but he could almost admit that he'd really been running away. Then again, who wouldn't run away from something like that? This kind of thing didn't happen to the dependable and practical Stephen Stanton, not ever, and he wasn't exactly in a comfortable frame of mind. His emotions and his thoughts were jumping all over the place, and he didn't think he was even capable of sorting through any of it.

He leaned his tall body against the fence closest to the house, folding his arms across his chest and not even trying to keep his troubled thoughts from showing on his features. _That thing knew Will_, he found himself thinking, his fears feeding on themselves and becoming even stronger the more he considered the matter_. How could it know Will? _Perhaps this was the most terrifying idea of all, that a talking carnival head could _know_ his brother, could know him well enough to call him by name and to warn him. _And warn him of what? That the dark is rising? What does that mean, exactly? _

Stephen shook his head, hating the not knowing. He'd always suspected that his brother wasn't what he seemed, that Will was involved in something nobody else would understand…but then again suspicions were not proof, and Stephen had always been able to push his fears for his brother aside, tell himself that he was just imagining things, that Will was really only a teenager and what kind of trouble could a teenager living in the middle of nowhere get into? And yet, now that Stephen _did_ have proof—irrevocable proof, at that—of the danger his brother was in, he didn't know what to do about it. What was the dark, and how was it a threat to Will? How could Stephen protect Will from something he didn't understand? For all he knew, the head itself could be the threat, and the warning was nothing more than a diversion or a trap. _But who would want to trap _Will_, of all people_?_Unless he's secretly James Bond, what could he have done to make him worth trapping in the first place? What does an eighteen-year-old boy do to make enemies at all?_

_What is he?_

Stephen closed his eyes, half-wishing he'd never responded to that whispery voice in the attic, knowing he couldn't have done anything else._This is so completely weird…_

* * *

Will wasn't overly surprised to see Stephen waiting for him when he finally returned home, because the way his luck always seemed to run, he'd almost expected to celebrate his victory in one confrontation by beginning another. _If I'd believed in Fate, _he mused tiredly, _I'd have to assume she had it out for me. What more can this day hold? It's not even ten o'clock yet, and I'm already far too tired to deal with this._

He sighed, no longer really feeling the cold of the English air, not finding enough energy within himself even to paste an appropriately disarming smile on his own lips. "Hallo," he called, trying to make his voice calm and easy, not really caring if he succeeded. "What are you up to, Stephen?"

His brother didn't answer for a long moment, but when he did, his voice was glacially cold. "I could ask you the same thing," he quietly retorted, enough fear and anger in his tone to make even Will want to flinch.

Of course, wanting and doing were two different things, and Will's expression never changed. "What do you mean?"

The younger brother's voice had been very deliberately casual, but that didn't even remotely dispel the tension. The older Stanton's face never became less hard; nor was there so much as a tiny glimmer of uncertainty in Stephen's gaze. Will hadn't really expected there to be, though. This conversation was long in coming, even if they'd had it once before, and Stephen was hardly going to be put off by the same old pretense Will had been hiding behind for so many years.

Then again, as hard as Stephen's eyes were, resignation had made Will's gaze even worse. His grey eyes had sharpened to the color of steel, and even the fake smile was completely gone from his firm lips. _I've seen that look before_, Will found himself suddenly thinking. _He looked at me this way the first time he demanded answers, the only time I told him the truth about myself and my cause. _He sighed inaudibly, lips turning downward in an intense frown. _I promised myself once that I wouldn't tamper with his memories again, but it looks like I won't have a choice._

Stephen was still staring at him, those sharp eyes of his scanning his brother's face for any sign of the truth he'd already learned once before. He opened his mouth, thought better of what he'd planned to say and swallowed his words. He, too, sighed, not wanting to begin the conversation they both knew was coming any more than Will did. Finally, though, as the silence stretched between them and became painful, he shook his head and blurted out the very last thing Will had ever expected to hear from him.

"I've been given a message for you, Will," he said, and if there was now a slight edge of panic in his voice, Will didn't focus on it.

The younger boy waited, body tense to the point of pain, eyes unreadable. He knew what was coming, of course. He'd have been an incredibly_bad_Old One if he hadn't been able to recognize the look on Stephen's face. For all the hardness in his gaze, there was an underlying tension in the sailor's face that made him look as though the ground was collapsing beneath his feet, as though everything he knew had been twisted and changed and he'd been left with nothing. Will knew the feeling, though it had been so long since he'd been able to really indulge in pitying himself that he couldn't really feel more than a twinge of sympathy for his fully human brother.

_This is more than just an overdue conversation_, he only thought, that other in himself quelling even that slight sympathy_. Stephen _knows. "A message from whom?"

Stephen's voice was thick with something not even Will could identify, but it was also too careful, for all that. "From the Huntsman," he answered softly.

He gazed hard at Will, and the younger man fought to keep his expression straight. _This isn't good. Things must be worse than I'd thought if the Huntsman has awakened. _He chose not to address the fact that Stephen had now become a part of his world, however unwillingly, chose not to dwell on the terror Stephen must have felt when the Huntsman's head had come to life and spoken. "I see." He scowled, unaware that the other part of him was shining through in his eyes. "What was the message, Stephen?"

Stephen was glaring at him, now, and Will knew it was because his reaction wasn't what the older man had expected. Perhaps his brother thought he should have been puzzled, or even afraid. Perhaps he thought Will should be trying to pretend he didn't know who the Huntsman was—or, more accurately, _what_he was—but Will just didn't have time for that anymore. He needed to know what the Huntsman knew, needed to know if the Wild Magic would be aiding him this time, needed to know if the Huntsman had a way to stop the Dark.

Stephen seemed to be debating whether or not to answer Will's question, but something in Will's face must have convinced him, because he only grimaced and pushed on. "He said the dark was rising, and that you're out of time. He said he wanted to speak with you." He paused, and his voice was still cold. "What is all of this about, Will? What was that thing, and how did it come to life? Did you know it could do that?"

Will did wince, now. He supposed he should be grateful that Stephen wasn't having a full blown fit of hysterics, though it would have been perfectly understandable if he had. All things considered, Will was almost proud of the way Stephen was handling this, even if it made the situation so much harder for Will himself. "I'll explain everything in a minute, Stephen," he quietly lied, knowing perfectly well that he'd end up erasing Stephen's memories of this conversation before that could happen. "The Huntsman won't wait."

* * *

Perhaps Stephen should have expected Will's lack of reaction to the message he'd been given, but somehow, in spite of the mystery that always seemed to surround his youngest brother, he'd never really believed Will could have any part in something so strange. He'd never thought Will would know who the Huntsman was, had never thought Will would take the creature's words so calmly, but the youth had, and there was really only one conclusion Stephen could come to. _Will's been lying to us all along. He's known what that carnival head was, but he hid it from us. Why would he do that? What secrets could be so terrible that he couldn't trust his own family with them?_

_What are you, Will?_

* * *

Will's face was still terribly hard as he led the way into the house and up to the attic. He could feel his brother's eyes boring a hole into the back of his head, could feel the suffocating tension that had arisen between them, but there wasn't much he could do about it._I'm sorry, Stephen. This is the second time you've carried a message for me, and it'll be the second time I've betrayed you and manipulated you. I wish there could be another way, but there isn't._

The pain of that imminent betrayal was a lead weight in his heart, but at least he didn't have to dwell on it for long. It took only a moment for the two brothers to wind their way towards Will's attic bedroom, took only an instant more for them to cross the room and stand before the carnival head. Will planted his feet directly in front of the thing, noting only absently that Stephen was hanging back, perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of uncertainty. It didn't matter. Will's attention was now focused solely on the Huntsman, waiting with remarkable patience for the thing to spring back to life and give him the rest of his message.

The wait was a short one. The head's eyes snapped open so quickly that Stephen jumped, the golden gaze immediately refocusing on the stocky youth before it. Will merely blinked back, waiting with that same patience for this Lord of a different sort of magic to address him.

The head didn't waste any time, either. "_The Dark is Rising, Watchman_," it said, as little inclined towards mincing words as it had ever been. Stephen jumped again at the gravelly voice, though he remained mercifully silent.

Will ignored Stephen, inclined his head in respectful acknowledgment towards the being before him, though he, too, didn't bother with small talk or greetings. "I know," he murmured almost gently, "but your warning comes too late. The Grey King has already revealed himself, has already begun the next battle between my kind and his." His eyes narrowed slightly, and he tilted his head to one side. "This battle should never have been, Huntsman," he abruptly murmured, "but while I can accept that this Lord of the Dark was powerful enough to escape the High Magic, I can't understand why_you_would try to warn me. How is it that you've been permitted to interfere?"

The Huntsman's eyes were fierce, but then Will didn't think they could really be anything else. "_The High Laws have already been broken, Old One. There can be no balance between Light and Dark, between the High Magic and the Wild. Nothing is as it was, and I am no longer bound by the old rules." _

Will nodded, thinking that it made a certain kind of sense. The Grey King might have been powerful enough to escape the judgment passed upon the rest of his kind, but in remaining on a world that technically should have been ruled by the Light—even if the Light had refused that authority—was a violation of every natural law. The delicate balance that had always existed between the four powers was now destroyed, but for those creatures that belonged to neither Light nor Dark, that destruction also meant freedom.

_Yes, but freedom at what price? They're free to choose sides, now, free to act in their own interests even if those interests contradict the higher laws, but the very natures that have always kept them separate from the battles between Light and Dark will also keep them from understanding how dangerous that is. The world can't handle the kind of chaos that will result from this breaking of the laws, and we could all end up being destroyed. How can I convince them to submit long enough to keep that from happening?_

The yellow eyes were still fixed on Will's expressionless face, but the immortal youth only sighed and nodded. "I see," he said again, unaware that his voice was just as noncommittal as it had been a few moments earlier with Stephen. He caught his lip between his teeth in a very human gesture, wondering if he should ask the Huntsman which side _he_would be fighting on, knowing it was not the time for that. Right now, it was more important that he spend his few remaining hours gathering information, preparing his own defenses, readying himself for the second conflict. He grimaced, inclined his head once more in a slight gesture of respect for this inhuman messenger. "I thank you, Huntsman," he murmured. "We'll speak again, I think, but not until I know more of what I'll be facing."

The head didn't reply. It's features had frozen once more, dropping back into the lifeless mask it was supposed to wear. Will, unoffended, simply shrugged, and with a slight nod to his brother, turned and left the room.

Stephen had no choice but to follow.


	8. Loving Bonds

**A.N.**.: Before any of you bother flaming me, there simply wasn't a way to keep this conversation from being melodramatic. I tried. Really, I did.

Anyway, my thanks to **Sargent Snarky**. She's been gone far above and beyond the call of duty as my beta, and I think she deserves sainthood for putting up with me. Also, the crack Stephen makes when Will first starts trying to explain is entirely hers. She'd made it in response to the chapter I'd sent, and I laughed so hard that I had to write it in.

Review and get a cookie!

Edited December 2007

* * *

CHAPTER EIGHT: Loving Bonds

* * *

Once, long ago, Will had learned what loneliness was. He'd stood on a hilltop in Wales, surrounded by loved ones with whom he would later barely acknowledge friendship, and listened with a sort of numb acceptance as Merriman had revealed the role Will was still destined to play. He'd looked into the blank faces of Bran and Jane and the others, known they'd understood only that he'd be staying behind with them and that their part in the war was over, and felt all the more lonely because they hadn't seen what was so painfully obvious to _him_. 

Will wasn't only being asked—_commanded_—to stand guard, to _watch_ for all those countless eons until the world finally ended. He wasn't only being asked to remain behind, the only one of his kind, or even the only one of _any_ kind who remembered what had led to this. Far more than that, Will was being asked to sacrifice something precious and vital, to cast aside the only thing which might have staved off the isolation of the centuries.

_Loving bonds, _John and Bran had called them…and Will would slowly lose them, even turn away from them. It was the price demanded by masters far crueler than those of the Dark could ever be, but he'd known, even then, how necessary it was.

How necessary it still was.

His loved ones would age; he would not, and the dilemma was as simple and as complex as that. If he stayed, they'd know he wasn't human, and that would hurt them. It would shake their beliefs in themselves and in their world, take from them their human innocence. Did they deserve that, simply because their youngest was more than he should have been?

And if he left, made them forget that he'd ever been part of their lives? He could erase their memories of him, disappear completely…but even an Old One couldn't control what is in the human heart, and wiping their memories wouldn't be enough. They would still love him, even if they didn't know who he was, and some part of them would always miss him, ache for him. They didn't deserve that, either, and his way still seemed better. Cleaner.

Far kinder, he'd finally decided, that he begin to pull away from them now, distance himself from their lives until any love they'd had for him would be a pale thing, easily dismissed. Though this would only hurt him more, when the day finally came for him to disappear completely, they, at least, would feel very little pain at the separation.

_Loving bonds. _

Will Stanton could feel Stephen's eyes boring into the back of his skull as he led the older man from the room and down the stairs, could feel his brother's resentment and confusion, but Stephen's was not a fear words could ease. Explanations would prove inadequate, and while he would soon be forced to offer those explanations anyway, this was not quite the moment for it.

They passed their mother on the way out the door, and Will paused only long enough to offer a deceptively cheerful wave and false smile as they walked by. She started to call out to them, but Will pretended not to hear, and he wasn't certain that Stephen even had. The brothers slipped out the door, and it was a simple thing to drop the lie that had been Will's smile.

He took Stephen to the barn. He didn't know his brother quite as well as he once had, and he no longer knew if Stephen would go cold and silent with fury and fear, or if he'd begin to yell. Granted, Steve had taken the truth calmly once before, but how hard had he really been tested? All he'd had, in truth, were a handful of odd conversations with complete strangers and one more with a kid brother who claimed an impossible heritage…words, only. And what were words?

And maybe he'd reacted better than Will had expected, but Will had never been given a chance to know how much Stephen had actually believed. The moths had come, almost in the instant that Will had finished his tale, and Stephen had forgotten.

In any case, this situation was completely different, because now Stephen had been given more than words to inspire his fears, and far less time to rationalize away any of it. Will simply couldn't know how Steve would react, though it was the cold fear he dreaded most. He'd had enough of that in his lifetime, and he didn't want to find in his brother what had so often been inspired by the Dark.

Stephen followed Will without protest, without anything but that silent resentment, and it was Stephen who carefully shut the barn door behind them. _Not a good sign_, Will thought, staring back at his waiting brother with eyes far too tired for his years. "I suppose you'll be wanting an explanation, then."

His voice was too calm, if also weary, and Stephen stared at him for a long moment. Then…

"No, Will," he snapped back, the sarcasm in his voice heavy enough to drown out everything else, "I'm only staring at you with terror and confusion because it's fun—it's my favorite hobby." He snorted, but before Will could make any sort of reply, the fear had returned. "What's going on, Will? What was that thing? What are_ you_?"

Will watched his brother, his expression now openly thoughtful and nothing more. _No hysterics, no yelling. Should I be grateful?_ "It's…complicated. And you won't believe me."

Stephen's eyes had hardened at the matter-of-fact quality in his kid brother's voice. "_Will_…"

The younger Stanton held up one hand, cut off his brother's words. "Remember that I tried to warn you," he murmured softly, and it seemed so much a command to Stephen that the older Stanton couldn't say anything more. He only waited.

Will sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. "First," he slowly began, "that _thing _is Herne the Hunter, a creature of the Wild Magic, and before you ask again, yes, I did know he could do that." He gave a faint half-smile that died a little too quickly, and then sobered once more. "He's not a danger to either of us, Stephen. I don't know if he's a friend, but he's...not an enemy, either. I can promise you that, at least."

Stephen's expression had been carefully blank until now, but Will had seen the quick flash of surprise when he'd mentioned the Huntsman's other name. "Herne…" He swallowed, frowned. "You're telling me that…that carnival head is _Herne_? Like the one from that silly legend?"

"No," Will answered easily enough, not at all surprised that an Englishman would recognize the name, "not _like_the one from the legend, Steve. He _is_ that Herne. Herne of the Wild Hunt, who leads the Hounds of Hell across the sky, once a year, on the Twelfth Night. He…helped me, once—or maybe I helped him—to drive away an enemy."

Silence for a moment. "Do you really expect me to believe any of this, Will?"

Will gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "You saw the Huntsman, Stephen," he answered evenly. "Spoke with him. Can you doubt me?"

Not even Stephen, as much as wished he could, was able to deny what he'd seen in Will's room. Still, he wasn't willing to give in so easily. "What enemy?" he asked instead. "You're just a kid—how could you have enemies?"

Will's eyes were still thoughtful, though now that thoughtfulness was almost to the point of calculation. He knew he should just erase Stephen's memories and be done with it, but…he wouldn't. Not yet. Not until he'd passed the test his brother had become. "It's a long story, Steve," he answered, hesitating only a little, "and it'll be easier on both of us if you hear it all before you start arguing with me." He waited for his brother to nod, took a deep breath and began his explanation for the second time.

"From the beginning, Stephen," he told his blank-faced brother, "there have been two…poles, forces, whatever you want to call them, that have fought for power over this world. The Dark wanted to rule, to take from men their agency and their freedom and control the world through them, and the Light sought to prevent that."

Silence again. Will couldn't tell if it meant disbelief or acceptance, though of course he could guess. _Now comes the fun part. _"I serve the Light," Will quietly confessed. "I'm an Old One, an immortal. A great circle of us has existed from the moment the world first began to be, and to us was given the task of driving back the Dark." He paused briefly, wondering again if Stephen could ever understand any of this. "I'm the youngest of the Old Ones, and the last to be born, though I didn't know what I was until the morning of my eleventh birthday. I came into the fullness of my powers a short time later, and since then, every waking moment has been given to what was essentially a war between good and evil."

That damned silence, still, though he knew his brother was memorizing every word.

Will shook his head, never taking his eyes from Stephen's. "It was…hard," Will continued quietly. "People got hurt. Lost everything. Died. And as bad as it was, it was worth it if it meant defeating the Dark." A shadow crossed his face at that, but he pushed the memories aside. "The Light _did_ win, in the end, though it was a close thing. We drove away those of the Dark, imprisoned them beyond Time. Saved the world, as melodramatic as that sounds."

Another ghost of a smile crossed his lips, but it was obviously forced, and it didn't last. He pushed on. "It should have been over, then. We should have been able to go home, try to forget. Some of us did—the humans who'd fought alongside us, there at the end. A gift of the Light, that forgetting, for some things aren't meant to be remembered."

Will's eyes had darkened slightly throughout the narrative, though he'd tried to keep his voice as inflectionless as possible. _This was so much easier the first time. _"And some things can't be forgotten," he continued, still in that quiet, deadened voice. "The Light had defeated the Dark, and by that earned the right to rule over this world themselves. And this they refused, since doing so would have deprived men of their freedom just as surely as if they'd lost to the Dark. Instead, the Light chose to go beyond Time themselves, to a place of rest, leaving their youngest behind in case the Dark somehow found a way to Rise again."

Will fell silent, hesitated, suddenly stood a little taller. For just an instant, he allowed the full force of his power to shine in his handsome, stern face and equally stern grey eyes, and he pierced his mortal brother's gaze with his own. "I was that youngest," he reminded the older man, and though Stephen couldn't have recognized it, there was no longer anything human in Will's voice. "I'm the Watcher, the last of the Old Ones, left behind to stand guard for all eternity. I've spent the last six years watching, waiting, knowing the Dark could never escape their prison but jumping at shadows anyway." Something rueful entered his eyes, softened them, took some of the inhumanity from him. "And somehow," he muttered, "in spite of that, when a Lord of the Dark actually did return, I was caught completely unawares. Some Watcher I turned out to be."

He might have said more, but even this small admission of weakness was more than he ought to have given, and he quickly schooled his expression back into its customary mask. "You can say something now."

The words were more remote than he'd meant them to be, but as he gazed into his brother's face, any regret he might have felt was quickly lost. Stephen was staring back at him, and the frown now twisting his brother's lips sent something unpleasant sliding down Will's spine. _So it's to be the cold, after all. _

Stephen's silence had lasted through everything Will had said, but now that he was free to break it, he didn't seem to know what to say. The frown continued, deepened, and Will almost winced at what he could see in his brother's face. "_Say_ something, Steve." His tone was more insistent than desperate, but it was enough to pull Stephen from his defensive stillness.

Stephen's gaze was flat and unfriendly. "I don't know _what_ to say, Will," he muttered almost sullenly. "I don't know what to think, or what to believe. This…story you're telling me…it's crazy. Impossible. _Insane_."

"Yet true, all the same." Will's grey eyes held a muted pity. "I did try to warn you. Grant me that, at least."

_That_ seemed to draw Stephen back to himself. "How can you be so casual about all of this?" He didn't give Will a chance to answer. "And even if I did believe you—I'm not saying that I do—then you've been lying to all of us all along, haven't you?" His laughter was short and bitter…and slightly wild, though Will couldn't blame him. "You ask me to trust you, but how can I? Have you ever been honest with me, Will?"

Will didn't frown, or shrug, or do anything so human, though the words weren't quite what he'd expected. He only gazed back at Stephen, his face carefully expressionless, the steadiness in his eyes that of a servant of the Light and not a brother. "It was necessary," he told the angry man before him, "and sometimes lies are kinder than the truth. I don't expect you to understand."

Stephen had gone still—again, not a reaction Will had expected. "And why is that, Will?"

Will's lips twisted in a smile far sadder than it should have been. "Because you're human." _And I'm not. I can't let myself forget that. _

Will sighed, knowing he was wasting time, needlessly torturing himself. He couldn't have said, any longer, what he'd been hoping this would prove, but whatever it had been, it was time for it to end. He looked into Stephen's eyes, and for just an instant, Will allowed himself to be a brother again. "I'm sorry, Stephen," he murmured as he lifted one hand, fingers splayed out towards his brother. "Next time, I'll try to keep my promise."

_I won't let there _be_a next time. _

He forced himself to meet Stephen's eyes as the power of an Old One echoed through him, and for that one brief second, he allowed his expression to reflect his sincere regret. _Lies are kinder than the truth, _he reminded himself_. Loving bonds. _He only needed to speak the word, and it would be done. "Forg—"

And before he could, the Old One froze, his spell unfinished as he sensed another one being cast, and not by him.

His entire body stiffened, his expression tensing with something Stephen wouldn't be able to identify.

_The Dark. One of the Dark is here, in my home, in this barn. _

His eyes hardened with cold fury, but his sudden awareness of the enemy's presence was followed by a second, and far more terrible, understanding.

_Mary. And not Mary at all. _

He spun on one heel, hard grey eyes seeking out the creature his sister had become. She was standing several feet away, her body half hidden in the shadows at the back of the barn. She stepped forward, though she hadn't even been there an instant before, and Will automatically moved to place himself between the one wearing Mary's face and the uncomprehending Stephen.

He didn't ask her how she'd come to be there, or what she wanted. He only glared at her, and waited.

Mary must have known that he was waiting for her to make the first move, because her lips suddenly curved in a dark, unpleasant smile. "Nothing to say, little brother? Perhaps you've run out of words—you've already said so much, after all." She glanced at Stephen. "And what did you think of Will's tale, Steve? Quite the imagination, hasn't he?" She laughed, catching the expression on their eldest brother's face.

Will_ did_ wince, then. The real Mary's laughter had never been so high-pitched, or so cruel, and her words were certainly not what his true sister might have offered. Even Stephen must have noticed the difference; he took a hesitant step forward, whispered their sister's name. Will glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch the uncertainty in Stephen's eyes, though he might not have said anything had Stephen not taken another step towards his siblings. His brother was now directly behind him, confusion roiling from him in palpable waves.

Will held up one hand, stopped his brother before Stephen could endanger himself further. "Don't, Steve," he softly commanded. "Don't go near her."

The fake Mary laughed again, and Will's jaw clenched at the mockery in the sound. "What's wrong, Will? Why shouldn't he come to me?" Her smile widened into a grin, and even that was twisted from what it should have been. "You hurt me, Will Stanton."

Stephen made a sound at Will's back—Mary would never call any of her brothers by their last name, and she certainly would never use that tone of voice even if she had—but Will didn't turn around again. He didn't dare take his eyes from this creature, or turn his back on her, though he wanted nothing more than to drag Stephen forcibly away. "Don't listen to her, Stephen," he said, voice soft and deadly as a dagger thrown in the dark. "That's not Mary."

He felt rather than saw Stephen's nod, and while that would have been enough to take Will aback, the words were worse. "I know," Stephen muttered, though he didn't ask what Mary really was, or what fate their sister had met. Perhaps he realized that they had bigger problems, and perhaps he simply didn't want the answer. Whatever the reason, he took a step back, left Mary to Will.

Will, however, knew better than to ask what Steve couldn't. The look in Mary's eyes was too familiar, for all that he hadn't seen it in six years.

_My sister_, the human part of himself was thinking,_ has been possessed by the Dark. _


End file.
